Calling Down the Moon
by Blind Loyalty
Summary: A new Death Eater trying to make her way into the inner circle, a brutally violent werewolf trying to change wizarding attitudes with blood . . . An obsession with darkness, a need for light. OFCFenrir
1. Prologue

_Calling down the Moon_

**Prologue**

It had started off with cheering, anticipation. The grounds filled with the excitement of hundreds of people, all wondering what exactly was going on in there, and who would come out triumphant. In reality, the event went almost exactly to plan. Unfortunately for the spectators and participants, they had no idea what was to happen. And when it did happen, they thought it to be some horrific mistake. The cheering faltered; the screams began. Utter panic and chaos reigned split seconds after the catch of breath, the horrified gasp.

Potter walked into the maze, ready to win, people lauding him (perhaps a few booing) all the way. He walked out shaken, and dragging a corpse.

* * *

Hogwarts had been a mess, a cacophony of fear and confusion. It took a lot from the Professors, much stalwartly presence of mind to muster up the needed strength to command masses of students to some sort of calm resolve. Somehow everyone had made it in the school. Somehow the right parents got to the right children, and all the correct things were said and observed. Somehow, through all this mess, everyone managed to make it into the Great Hall for the parting feast. 

The walls were decked in black. Black was rather a nice colour; or, not so much a colour as a shade, but nonetheless. However, the meaning of it on this day was brought to the forefront, the soft weepings of students, the stunned expressions of those determinedly controlling their emotions. Everyone knew why there were no coloured banners commemorating that year's winner of the House Cup. They knew why everything was as bleakly drab as the future they were about to step into. The rumours were circulating with rabid speed even Hogwarts hadn't seen before.

Especially at the Slytherin table. The news of the Dark Lord's return had sent many a student into hushed conversations. Either exhilaration or trepidation, they were all murmuring, gesticulating frantically yet trying to keep their movements to a minimum. The last thing they needed was the attention of the Headmaster, or even the Professors. Some spoke of family members, others talked about considering the mark. None could say they wouldn't take the mark for others around them might report them as blood-traitors. With the return of the Dark Lord, or so people were whispering about, that was now paramount to a death sentence, rather than mocking jeers.

After the feast, their fears, or hopes as was the case with several students, were affirmed. The Dark Lord had returned; not only that, but he had also murdered already. They were to mourn the poor boy, Cedric Diggory, for he was just the first innocent victim in the beginning of a long list of obituaries. Many of the Slytherin sat staunchly, not willing to give up their position on the matter. It was too dangerous to show allegiance either way: either they would show that they would betray the Dark Lord, or demonstrate their eagerness to join his ranks. Both were unacceptable. But these students were well adapted to hiding their inner truths, to playing both sides if need be.

The ones who were leaving, however, already had their plans formulating, layer upon layer quickening in their minds. Thoughts of family and duty flickered through the brains of those seventh years sitting there, blank expressions on their faces, eyes hollow and listless. There was much to do. There was much to be planned for.

The Dark Lord was back.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

AN: Hey, just started the fic . . . Wanted to see what people thought. Don't worry, it will eventually get into Fenrir. The only problem was actually starting the fic. I need background and such, so yeah. But there will be delicious violence I swear!

BL


	2. Chapter I: Purity and Pride

Chapter I: Purity and Pride

The weather wasn't cooperating. It had been a beautiful summer day with a sweet, soft breeze and a radiantly blue sky. Children in the Muggle world spent the day screaming as they ran underneath sprinklers, or playing games in parks and pools. Wizarding children took the opportunity of a gorgeous day to play Quidditch or picnic with their school friends. A perfect day melted into a seemingly perfect night. The moon was waxing bright in the velvety purple sky; thousands of cold, sparkling stars could easily be seen with a mere glance upwards. The breeze present all day was still there, but added a refreshing feel as the adults strolled aimlessly, chatting and just enjoying themselves.

Unless one was an adult who was being called, or brought forth to the Dark Lord for their mark. With the events of the previous week, it was doubly important for any Pureblood families who either sympathised or had been supporters of Voldemort to send their of-age children to join His ranks. To show their support for His cause. There would be many new men taking the mark, filing out of their homes into the fresh night's air, to Apparate into a small cramped room. Kneeling before the most fantastic, powerful wizard their kind had ever known. And serving Him, in full capacity, for to do otherwise, as so much did, spelt death.

It was unfortunate the weather was so nice. This was the sort of night that deserved thunder and lightning, perhaps some shrieking in the distance. But tonight was completely unassuming, not daring to breathe whisper of the Dark Lord's doings, of what was to befall the world. A stormy night filled with pathetic fallacy would have people on edge, staying home, and wondering why all these black-cloaked figures were going out in the miserable weather. It would keep them paranoid . . .

In fact, the weather was cooperating rather marvellously.

* * *

The warmth of the day had passed and now the moon shone cold light over the land. Fields, to be exact, ever-stretching and bare. Many people remembered odd things in this field, like not turning off the oven, or just plain forgot what they were doing there. For those who edged closer, unperturbed by the protections all around, a shadow rose from the ground, emerging as one approached until it was immense, looming and forbidding. Yet it had a strange allure that few could ignore when they gazed upon it. This was a house that could have you dropping to your knees in awe. The sheer size alone was worth a stare. That wasn't the dark beauty of it, however. What made it so inspiring was the harsh grace it cut in the scenery, a monster growth of spires and battlements, flat field all around. While it had a sinister air to those who would attack it, for all the others, it was elegance in stone. The effect had grown during the centuries, the house darkening with age and wear. But the condition was the same as ever, the carvings, the gargoyles spitting water, almost untouched by time. Everything on the home was subtly decorated. It could take years for one to notice and study each of the intricate carvings, the tiny wrought workings. That wasn't all that was special about this mansion.

It wasn't until one approached the house that sprawling gardens suddenly appeared. Flagstone paths wound about the house, through the mazes of trees, bushes and exotic flowers. Small statues decorated the estate, difficult to see unless one looked for them. They blended in, standing there for those who appreciated them, understood what they truly were. In the clearing before the massive doors into this castle was an ancient mosaic encircling an old, blackened statue depicting what almost seemed to be a hunting scene. Until one peered a bit closer. A second of study and one understood: slaughter frozen in art. And even there the meaning did not stop.

But like the small statues littered inconspicuously on the grounds, this was only to be understood by those who already knew. The owners of the manse, the same bloodline who had built the place, knew her secrets, understood everything on their lands. It was old hat though, so they paid no mind excepting the duties required. This was a Pureblood family, always had been, and imagined themselves near nobility. They were as good as every other family out there, and now they would prove it. With their sons.

Preia Sonder was the matriarch of her family. Her husband had died years ago, when the Dark Lord had last warred with the wizarding world. She was still proud about her family's sacrifice, and even missed him sometimes. But he had died for a cause, the cause to better their world. He had given her sons besides; now they were men, ready to follow in their father's footsteps, and die for the Dark Lord if need be. If she had been able, she herself would have taken the Dark Mark. But she had had a husband to care for, a home to run, and soon enough, children to raise. Even with house-elves, being a married woman was a difficult job. A job she undertook with relish.

There her sons stood in the grand Entrance Hall, backs straight, faces serious. They had been too young to ever take the mark. Now, with the Dark Lord reborn, they had their chance to serve their people, to show that the Sonders were still devoted and loyal. To bring the wizarding world back up to its rightful place. That was their creed; that was their duty.

Sweeping down the main staircase, her hand brushing the banister, Preia's pale eyes took in her three boys standing there, chins up, watching her with utmost respect. She had raised them well; they looked their station and oozed the charm and pride their blood bestowed upon them. Stepping on the marble floor, she walked over to them, her shoes clicking almost reassuringly on the perfectly shined surface. Examining her three boys one by one, she fixed their robes and gave them a small nod.

"I told you where He's meeting," she hissed in a surprisingly strong voice (for her age and slender build spoke nothing of her inherent power) "now go. We are a proud family, a Pure family. I have taught you this from the cradle. Take your marks with dignity and do not shame me with cries of pain. You leave my boys. You come back as men. Or do not come back at all." Her eyes flashed and she turned, heading back into the house calmly, opening arched doors at the end of the hall with a lazy flick of her ebony wand. Stepping through into the main chamber, she disappeared from her children's sight.

The inside of the house was as much a labyrinth as the gardens outside. With knowledge of certain landmarks, however, traversing the twisting hallways, the sometimes secluded rooms, became much easier. And for children brought up in the home, it was a glory for games, and simple to know. From the main chamber, decorated with tapestries, medieval weaponry for the brutal aesthetic value, and portraits – not to mention the side-tables and vases filled to the brim with bright flowers right from the gardens – there were two staircases, leading each to separate wings of the house. From the ground floor were four sets of doors. Preia took the ones at the back right, and wound her way through the halls, past rooms and near-caverns, until she came to an intricate doorway. Opening the door, which ended the hall, she stepped into the library. Warm glow cast from lamps and a fireplace greeted her a floor below. Books surrounded her on this level, the middle of the room open to the lower section of the library. Taking one of the sets of circular stairs down, Preia came upon a figure lounging in a large, dark green plush chair, thumbing through a book.

"I take it they left," the figure murmured, eyes scanning the page as quickly as possible, bringing out her wand and touching it gently to the bottom corner of the book. Now it looked as if she was studying Dark Arts. Lifting her head and slipping her wand back into her robes as her mother came around the chair, she gave the elder woman a small, but polite, smile.

"Not even a greeting, child?"

Properly admonished, the girl's smile faltered slightly. "I'm sorry, Mother. Good evening, Mother. I take it my brothers have gone to join the Dark Lord?"

Preia leaned over and gave her daughter a chaste kiss on the cheek, then settled into the other chair by the fireplace. The castle was old so even in summer there would be a small fire in all hearths to help dry the air. Studying the lazing girl, she frowned a tad. "Yes. Pride of our blood they are. They'll do this family proud, mark my words."

"As marked as their arms." This was whispered under her breath. Delphia, youngest of Preia's children and the only girl, had always been held to higher standards than her brothers. Whatever they did, she had to do better. When it was good for them, it wasn't good enough for her. She had to be pretty, polite, politically knowledgeable and have a tongue of barbs. Her brothers had to be powerhouses, good supporters of family and achieve a repertoire of Dark Magic that would make the Dark Lord gleeful. While her mother adored her in her own, peculiar way, her mother also demanded more from her only girl.

A sharp glance. "What was that?"

Delphia shook her head. "Nothing, Mother. Just . . . talking to my book."

"Yes," Preia began slowly, giving the book a bit of a glower, "and why are you reading? Do you not have something better to do? Practise your magics? Get the house-elves into shape – I've _noticed_ your section of the gardens, Delphia, and they are not up to standard. I expect them fixed tomorrow."

Closing her book with a bit of a snap, she turned her head to give her mother a look. "I start working for the Ministry soon, Mother. You were the one who helped arrange that. One of the secretaries to the Senior Under-secretary of the Minister or something?" she said in a slightly sarcastic tone, knowing exactly what her job was.

"Fine." The word was spit out. Preia wasn't about to argue fact. "Just do not take this placement lightly!" It really was nothing to be taken lightly. Delphia hadn't a clue what she was going to do with her life all through school. She hadn't really given her future much thought. But as fifth year had drawn to a close, the advisory sessions with Professor Snape having instilled some fear into her, her mother had already begun stirring up old alliances, speaking to old friends. It was a given, at least to Preia, that her daughter would enter the politics of the Ministry. She knew her child was well-versed in and quite adapted to verbal sparring and quick thinking, not to mention having a healthy dose of ambition and brains. Now, with the Dark Lord back, Preia – and Delphia – were in a unique situation. One that only luck, or divinity, could grant. Using yet more connections, Preia had bribed and extorted her way into handing her daughter a precious place for the Death Eaters. Working under the Minister's lapdog. Delphia had a unique opportunity to serve the Dark Lord in her own way: keep the public from knowing about His return, and to watch Umbridge and feed her information and ideas to further their goals, while making the toady fool think she was aiding the Ministry. It was beautiful, it was perfect. Her sons serving the Dark Lord and now her daughter serving them all. He would be pleased with her. Delphia's father would have been proud.

The only variable in this little game was Delphia herself. She had been raised well though, and knew her place. The plight of her people was something she had been brought up with. Filth and blood-traitors were lurking around every corner. They were destroying their world; these were facts for her, the truths and the good fight her father had given his life for. She barely remembered him. All she had was a scowling picture of a pale man with bright, sharp eyes and brown hair. The picture always smiled when she picked it up though, which gave her comfort. He had died, her mother reminded her children, for their futures. Could they not repay him by continuing his fight?

"I do not take it lightly," Delphia returned with a slight growl, baring her teeth a bit. It was a habit from childhood.

"Good," her mother sighed, reaching out and patting her leg. "Dear Lucius will be meeting you at the Ministry. He will help you out. It seems he knows Umbridge quite well," a wicked gleam shone in her mother's glacially pale eyes, "and was only too happy to give you this opportunity. Old friends, Del. Old friends," she finished in a whisper. Delphia knew her mother wanted something or was trying to teach her. Those were the only times she ever heard her nickname uttered from her mother's lips.

"It's good to know power," Delphia purred as she set her book down, hoping the enchantment would hold. "But even better to _hold_ it."

A smile, which turned into a dark smirk. "Oh Delphia. You have learned so well. But, child, are you ready for your next step?" Preia stood and gazed into the quietly crackling fire for awhile, mesmerized as dark wood became glowing white ash. "You will have her ear. You will do her paperwork. You will be one of her representatives within the Ministry when she is away. You must push the fact that the Dark Lord reborn is a creation of that mad Potter, and that equally incompetent Dumbledore." Whipping around, she pointed a finger at her daughter. "The Dark Lord does not accept failure! You have an opportunity here that many parents would kill for."

"Many have," Delphia broke in coolly, tossing her hair over her shoulder as if her comment were of little consequence.

Preia's mouth twisted into a crooked little smile. "Very true daughter. Many have. And many will again. It is your duty as a Sonder, as a _Pureblood_, to make sure we are not overrun with Mudbloods! And to do this, you must lie. To serve truth and good, you must do bad. Manipulate her; bend her to your will, Delphia. I am . . . trusting in you to do this."

Damn. She said the trust word. That was something Mother never threw around lightly. And for her to say that so directly, to sound so pained saying it . . . it meant a lot to Delphia.

"I know, Mother," she sighed, reaching out and clasping the older woman's hand in hers. "I know. And I will serve the Dark Lord as I have served you."

"That's my child," her mother whispered with a smile tugging at her mouth. She squeezed her girl's hand and nodded resolutely. "Good. If you wish, you can return to reading –"

"No," Delphia said quickly as she got up, knowing what was expected of her. Her mother was always filled with delightful mind-games and traps. To accept her graciousness would be folly. One didn't do what one wanted; one did what they had to. And whenever offered leisure, Delphia knew to rebuke it or risk punishment for being lazy and spoilt. "I'll go tend to my garden then get the elves on it." Giving her mother a respectful nod, she turned and swept out of the library, her brown hair rustling slightly against her robe. Preia watched her go and sat back in her chair, proud of her daughter. Delphia had learned well and she truly had faith in her child to do her job properly. In reality, her sons were her worry. Pride of her blood as they were, they were still boys. Preia knew her daughter: she knew Delphia would kill if told to without blinking, would employ every skill and wile she had to furthering the Dark Lord's plans if that was requested. Her sons . . . they would do her proud, she knew. But they would never be the brains in the operation, wouldn't get past the outer circle. They would be the ones dishing out pain and punishment; those she had no qualms with. There was a place for everyone.

And everyone had their place. In enough time, Delphia would learn hers, and her duties to her family and blood. But as her mother, it was Preia's job to make sure her child was up to the job and not only that, but willing to do it. In time, all would come to pass. Preia wasn't young enough to help the cause in person. But she had a daughter to give to the Dark Lord as well as sons. While they killed on his command, Delphia would scheme with her equals and their Lord, furthering the goals of their kind. Preia would have it no other way. Delphia would learn in time. Of that she had no doubt.

* * *

It was late into the night, or really, in the very early morning when the three boys (now men) came back home. Delphia was already in bed, sleeping somewhat restlessly over her worry about her new job. She would have been even more restless if she knew her mother was actively scheming. But it wasn't for her to know and by the time the choice came to pass, she wouldn't disappoint.

For the time being, Preia was satisfied with her sons. They entered the house quietly as a single black mass. Their arms still burned and twinged with pain, but for the youngest who merely clasped his hand over his mark, they showed no outer signs of agony. Heading through the Hall, they walked through the arched doors at the back to head to their private saloon for a nightcap. They all needed stiff drinks to take the edge off and to help them sleep. What they had just been a part of boggled the mind. Names had been called, praises given, tortures dished. Then those new to the fold were called forth to give homage to the Dark Lord, and to be marked. Each brother went in turn, barely twitching an eye. They did their family proud; they did their mother proud.

Heading up the sweeping staircase to the left, the boys skulked down the maze of halls to a highly decorated, warm room with a full bar. Sighing as they approached their usual chairs, they suddenly noticed they weren't alone. Stepping back, again as one entity, as their mother got up from a chair, they bowed their heads to her.

"Well," she murmured, walking over and clasping their left arms in turn, examining the mark on each, "how was it?"

The men looked to each other then back to their mother.

"Fine," the eldest grunted. "We waited to be marked and watched others get tortured for failure. It was . . . entertaining." A grin sprang up on his face, his eyes glinting by firelight. The others turned to him and smirked, their expressions becoming very much the same. Their eyes all blazed, enhancing the wild quality in their stare, their lust for causing pain, for acquiring power, more noticeable in this silent moment than it had ever been before.

Preia was proud of her sons, smirking inwardly at their looks. The Dark Lord had given them a taste and they craved more. Oh, they would get more.

"No whimpers of pain?" she shot sharply, eyeing her youngest son.

"No," he shot back with a feral sneer. At the look on his mother's face, he instantly cowered. "No, Mother," he nearly whimpered, forcing himself not to shield his face. Whatever punishment he got, he deserved.

None was forthcoming. She understood this sudden ferocity, and he had quickly made amends; that was acceptable. "Good. Your sister starts work in the morning. Be quiet. Or I will quieten you myself." With that, she swept out of their little drinking room and shut the door softly behind her.

Turning to each other, the men tossed off their hoods, collapsed into their chairs and had elves bring them liquor until they were in a dazed stupor.

* * *

Been addicted to Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion . . . not much time for anything but that, work and sleep .. But here's the first chappie! And tankies for the review. They are very much appreciated (hint hint, nudge nudge, say no more) especially with a . . . less popular kind of story.  
BL 


	3. Chapter II: And so it Begins

Chapter II: And so it Begins . . .

The sun was up and valiantly shining through the shimmering haze of morning. It rose above the fields and cut a massive, looming shadow of the castle situated in the sea of green and yellow. Golden light glinted off the thick windows in the towers and walls, casting a sharp wake-up light inside the occupied rooms. Especially the rooms with those who were going to be late for work.

While the men in the castle preferred their rooms to be dark, their sister had always enjoyed a nice, sunny room during most of the day. As it was, Delphia's room was filled with the harsh warmth of the morning sun. Silver filigree glinted all through her room, the dark, rich greens almost grassy in colour. The gold printing on the bindings of her books shone as patterns filtered through the lace draping her bed. Rolling over with a groan, Delphia put an arm over her head and squinted up at the canopy. It took her mind a moment to focus but when it did, she bolted up in bed with a gasp.

Looking frantically around her room, she wrenched the lace curtains back and leapt from her comfortable, warm bed. The castle chill hit her even through the sunlight, and shivering, she went to her wardrobe to grab some suitable robes. Stripping down and tossing her nightgown aside, she grabbed a set of red robes with black trim and yanked them on. Tying the matching sash around her waist as she flew over to her vanity, she dragged a brush through her hair until it crackled with static. Dropping the ivory handled, silver inlay brush with a clatter, it was finally time to rush down the stairs and hope her mother didn't start yelling.

* * *

The front gardens were a chaotic concerto of birdcalls and fluttering wings. Dew sparkled on the assorted foliage, drips leisurely dribbling into small puddles on the flagstone paths, seeping between cracks. The air was relatively clear, though the fields were still covered in rolling mist, almost glowing in the light. Delphia clutched her bag to her chest as she stepped slowly along the paths, nervous about her first day. Her eyes continually darted around her, trying to find some comfort in normalcy. It was surprising how beautiful everything was in the morning. Glistening leaves, silken multi-coloured buds, and bright birds flitting back and forth in the fragrant trees. Peering into a group of flowering bushes she thought she saw one of the little statues shake the water off his form. Smiling to herself, she reached over and laid a bronze coin on the platform before the sculpture.

Taking a deep breath of fresh morning air, Delphia set her shoulders and walked assuredly off the family land. The gardens steadily disappeared as she moved further away, until they seemed to exist no longer; a few steps further and the home she had grown up in was no longer a home, but a gigantic ominous shape. As her legs took her further, even the manor disappeared; all that was left as she looked around were fields. A vast breadth of green and yellow surrounded her, filling her vision. Studying the ground underfoot, she saw an old stone marker. She was far enough now; it was safe to Apparate.

* * *

The Ministry was already bustling that morning with the usual rounds of workers either Flooing into the massive hall, or Apparating beneath the blue rune-speckled ceiling. Visitors wandered about almost aimlessly, not quite sure on where to go. The lucky ones had friends acting as guides, taking them through the wand-weighing security and onto elevators soaring or plunging into the earth. A man with brilliant platinum blonde hair stood waiting, impatient, near the Apparation point. Periodically he checked a little silver watch, which was covered in delicate snakes, and snorted inelegantly. Though he had got an owl only a moment ago, explaining the delay, he was still annoyed. No one made Lucius Malfoy wait, especially a little brat of no standing.

Wizards and witches in various modes of dress filtered past. Half looked sleepy and were barely able to drag themselves through the halls, while the others looked chipper and greeted familiar co-workers with jovial "good mornings". Cringing and fighting the urge to scowl, Lucius took another look around. It wasn't difficult to miss a teenager within a throng of aging wizards, and yet, he couldn't spot her. Another glance at the ornate snake watch; she would be barely on time. Seeing as she was supposed to begin work at this hour, having already had a brief tour and introduction, her absence was starting to really grate his sensibilities.

"Mr Malfoy?"

Years of training prevented the startled jump; instead, he turned his head slowly to look in the direction of the voice. His face smoothed over instantly and he had a fetching, radiant smile ready.

"Miss Sonder," he very nearly purred, taking one of the hands clutching her old school bag and dropping a kiss onto it.

This wasn't exactly something Delphia was used to. To her, older males mocked and teased and pushed and tried to out-do her in Quidditch and hexes. Usually they did too, unless she got lucky, or managed to unleash something from one of the many books she had read, which they did not. More or less, she was used to her brothers being the image of mature men. Seemingly they weren't that mature, if Malfoy was behaving normally.

"I'm sorry I'm . . . late," she managed with a blush, taking her hand back delicately. While she knew, technically, that she wasn't late, she also knew that she should have been _early_. And that Lucius had been waiting for her as a favour to her mother. This tardiness did not bode well on her mother's name, or on their family. Increased embarrassment crept to her cheeks; the last thing she wanted was to defile her mother, even with something so miniscule.

"Perfectly understandable," Lucius returned in that low murmur, his silvery eyes flashing as a coy smile curled the corners of his mouth.

Older men were certainly an interesting species, Delphia noted. He looked almost hungry.

"Nonetheless," she said clearly, lifting her chin up, "I apologise. It was rude of me to keep you waiting and irresponsible to not be early for my first day of work."

An almost-white brow lifted nearly imperceptibly. "It is of little consequence," he sighed, twirling a black, snake-headed cane. "My other appointments can wait awhile longer for me to get to them."

Ouch. If there was one thing Sonder children learned early, it was subtle hints and threats. Green eyes glinting in anger as she stared at him, her mind raced. There was nothing she could say that would change the fact that she had irked him. But if he was angry, then why was he being so debonair? She almost laughed at that thought and settled on a tactful cough. As if he, or anyone of their blood and station, would ever show their true feelings, their true motivations.

The resentment built. "I see I have disappointed you." This was forced through gritted teeth, her eyes slitting. What else could she do but be honest? At least it would put him slightly off-balance. Not to mention the fact that she had caught onto his game. For what seemed to be the first time in her life, Delphia finally fully understood her upbringing. It wasn't that her mother was inherently more sadistic or malicious than any of her offspring; she was merely preparing them for the world they would enter when adults. Thank you, Mother.

Malfoy's mouth twitched, threatening to form a scowl. Giving her a tight smile, he gestured before him, allowing her to move freely. Taking a second, Delphia studied him. Like her brothers, he exuded charm; he was absolutely magnetic. But on a second look, one could see the polished exterior, the practised quips. His eyes were cold and calculating: nothing passed this one's gaze unrecognised. He was artificial, scheming, conniving . . . she could admire and respect that.

Returning the smile, she stepped past him and he took his place at her side, leading her through security. The guard looked lazily up and she handed over her wand.

"New here eh?" he grunted, nodding to Lucius, placing her willow wand on the scale. "Ten inches, unicorn hair core . . . in use for nine years. Right?"

She nodded as he handed it back and jabbed a slip of paper on a spike. "Excellent. You're all cleared now, dear."

When that was finished, Malfoy took her to the elevators and made sure they got on one alone. Delphia felt a chill as the doors shut, effectively locking her in a closed space with this unpredictable and infinitely powerful man. She knew all about Lucius Malfoy and most of the other Death Eaters. He was one strong, warped man. No wonder her mother loved him so.

"I hear your Mother's doing quite well," he clipped, looking to her, perfectly poised as always. His hands clasped the silver snake head of his cane, his gaze aloof.

"She's always well." It was true. Delphia could not remember a day in which her mother had taken ill. At Lucius's slight smirk, her blush returned. That hadn't been what he meant at all and now he was amused with her. "And scheming as usual, it seems," she shot, knowing she overstepped her boundaries but wanting to show she was no weak child, nor that she was stupid. It had taken less than a moment for her to realise the insinuation, the true intent of his words.

The retort on Lucius's tongue dropped cold as the elevator slid to a stop and the doors open. A couple witches and an elderly wizard got on, nodding to the pair. Both smiled blandly, staring blankly ahead as the witches gossiped eagerly about one of their friends. A floor later and they got off, leaving the old man. Then he doffed his hat to Delphia, nodded to Lucius, and left at the next floor.

Before the doors had even completely closed, Malfoy was snapping back, incensed that this child would dare speak to him in such a way. He had abilities she couldn't dream of; would she risk a taste of them?

"You wouldn't understand what is going on if we told you; keeping you out of things you cannot comprehend is not _scheming_, it's preparing and doing what is right." He looked down his pale, aristocratic nose at her with a sneer.

"Unfortunately," she said calmly, even adding a sweet little smile to dig further under his skin, "I've already been told what's happening. My Mother seems to trust me; she knows I am capable. Besides, it shouldn't be too difficult. All I need to do is make sure Umbridge stays on the denial track, and report anything she says or writes down in the safety and comfort of her office. I'm just a messenger – and I'll prod her when necessary – but I have no delusions of grandeur, Mr Malfoy." Her eyes darkened as she took a step closer to him, a wicked smirk twisting on her face. "I'm no fool; I will not risk exposing the Dark Lord prematurely and will do everything within my power to make sure all you can do the real work."

He studied her in absolute silence for awhile. It wasn't so much that he was stunned; he knew her family, had killed with her father, and had kept in touch with her Mother all these years. So he knew what the young Sonders could be capable of. No, it was the fact that she would actually address him, and figure herself to have some sort of power. That she could impress him with a bit of a show. Though her words did ring true, it was the fact that she was considering herself to be equal to him, and was trying to prove it, as if she would get his approval. This meant she obviously didn't know Malfoy at all, but still, it gave her a certain innocent, and thoroughly corruptible, charm.

"Amusing," he finally murmured, fiddling idly with his cane. "A Slytherin without delusions of grandeur. Are you sure you're quite alright?" His words were finished with a vicious sneer.

"Didn't you know?" she sighed, sounding as if he was almost worth an answer, "the Sorting Hat considered me for Ravenclaw. He decided on Slytherin in the end, but again, I'm no fool. I won't put myself into danger, or risk the Dark Lord, because I want more power. I can wait. I'll bide my time."

As the elevator stopped and the doors opened, his eyes slid over her one last time. He didn't quite know what to make of her. Did he berate her and put her into her place, or admit that she had a point? Perhaps it was better to do nothing and just be annoyed. Her faith in the Dark Lord, however, did resonate within him. What else could he have expected? She had been raised with the knowledge of her father's death for the cause, with older brothers who had just gladly taken the mark, with a mother who would have joined the ranks if she hadn't had a family to care for. She was closer to winning him over than not, if for only that fact. It was difficult to find young ones in this day who were so devoted to the Dark Lord's creed.

"The Senior Under-secretary's office is this way," Lucius said graciously as he motioned for Delphia to exit ahead of him. She gave him a weak, but honest smile, stepping out into a rather nice light brown, inlaid floor. Walking casually with his cane tapping the high-gloss ground, Lucius led her over to a set of double doors down the hall and pushed one open, gesturing yet again for her to go ahead.

At least he had manners. Stepping inside the office as she clutched her bag self-consciously to her body, she looked around. It was quite nice. There was a rather large main room, all done in soft honeyed wood tones with doors lining each wall. A woman sat at a desk near the back-middle of the room and looked up almost lazily. It took a split second for her to jerk upright, suddenly wide awake, as she took Lucius in. As for him, he looked down at Delphia and gestured towards one of the doors near the back, guiding her over. She had to skip around busy witches and wizards as they bustled past, carefully avoiding Lucius, but barely even seeing her. As they approached the door, a girl peeked her head out and nearly sagged with relief.

"Oh good, finally, I'm guessing you're Delphia? Well, we have papers that need to be filed away immediately; Mrs Umbridge is very busy right now and there's much to be done." With that introduction, she ducked back inside but left the door open.

"Have a pleasant day," Malfoy murmured, eyes glinting before he turned and strode out. Delphia watched him, almost disbelieving, as he went. She was still standing there, clutching her bag, staring off when the door opened a bit more and the same girl from earlier came out.

"Real charmer," she commented dryly, biting into an apple as she nodded in the direction Lucius had left. "Well," she said, mouth full, "c'mon. Umbridge will want to meet you and I need to bury you in the work I don't want. Senior staff and all." A wry grin went along with this statement.

Delphia turned slightly to look at the girl, brows arching. "Senior staff? And how long have you worked here?"

She shrugged. "Three months. C'mon." Once more, she disappeared. Delphia took a deep breath as she shut her eyes momentarily, then opened the door and plunged into the world of Dolores Umbridge.

It wasn't a pleasant world, to begin with. Upon passing the threshold the door had presented, entering a spacious white hall, there was this sense of unease. Immediately Delphia's nose was wrinkling. The problem was that it was _too_ pleasant. And for a child brought up with seething hatred, mind games, and a vast superiority complex, it was almost too much to handle. All down the door-lined hall there were pictures of adorable little animals romping about with each other, or sweet-faced angels and cherubs mucking about with wizardkind.

"What is this place?" Delphia managed to gasp out, making the other girl, who had taken the role of tour guide, nearly choke on the last bits of her breakfast apple.

"These are the offices of Senior Under-secretary Dolores Umbridge. On the left, nauseating pictures of animals. On the right, nauseating pictures of wizards. You'll get used to it; I found it helps if you gouge out your eyes during the first week."

There was just something about this girl that Delphia could respect and almost come to like. "And you are?"

"Just another nothing like you. M'names Katrine. Anyhoo, this is our office." Nearly at the end of the hall by now, the garish pictures still not slowing as they strolled, Katrine opened a door and stepped into a relatively small room. There were three desks with enough room to move around behind them, and enough room to get to the filing cabinets. One of the desks was piled nearly the height of Delphia with papers; another had a mishmash of assorted items and half-started work. The third desk was completely bare.

"That's your desk," Katrine said, pointing to the empty one, "I cleared it off when I came in. Not much point though. That," she continued, pointing to the sky-high desk, "is your work for today. Get settled in, be quick though; we're going to see Umbridge."

Delphia nodded and went to the empty desk, feeling tendrils of dread wrapping coldly around her belly. The last time she had done anything remotely resembling that pile of paperwork was seventh year at Hogwarts. Oh, how the exams looked so simple now, glancing out over that mound of a desk . . . Dropping her bag down on her new, slightly scuffed wooden desk, she started removing her things. A new notepad, new parchment, a couple quills and ink (black, blue, red and multi-coloured). When pleased with the layout, knowing it was fruitless as it would be mussed in less than a half an hour, she glanced up at Katrine and shrugged. The other girl seemed to get it and went to the door, leading Delphia back out into the hall of horrors. There came a point when Delphia was seriously considering the advisement to gouge out her own eyes but luckily, as the idea became more and more attractive, Katrine opened a door and walked in. There was a young man at the sole desk in the (thankfully picture absent) room. His eyes flitted up, then studied them over his spectacles.

"Yes?"

"Delphia," Katrine said simply, jerking her thumb in the direction of the girl behind her.

"Mrs Umbridge is in her office. You can go in," he said even as he looked down, his tone uncaring. They were under his notice.

Delphia wasn't used to being spoken to like this. But she bit her tongue. Now wasn't the place, and her Mother had warned her. She needed to be good, obedient and fawning. Starting a brawl with some brat in the office of her employer, someone whom the Dark Lord wanted cowed, and thereby ruining her chance would not play well. No, as she had always done, biding her time was the best route. Though, not by any means easy.

Walking with Katrine around the desk and through the door behind it, Delphia met the gaze of one of the largest, ugliest women she had ever met in her life. A sickeningly sweet and very toady smile spread across the woman's face as the girls entered.

Oh, this was going to be _too_ easy.

* * *

Well . . . there's chappie 2 . . . Er, my friend was supposed to beta this chapter like, a week ago but I haven't heard from her, so there could still be mistakes and later updates/fixes. Anyhoo, I'm searching around for an actual beta because, well, that would help a lot. If anyone's up for it . . . So anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed, and pweeze review A few reviews took this story from being stuck on chapter three to the midst of chapter twelve. So they do matter! Especially since Fenrir/Death Eater stories aren't as popular as, y'know, Harry/Ginny/Order stories or some fluffiness. Blah! I say, blah!

BL


	4. Chapter III: She Calls to Us

Chapter III: She Calls to Us

There was a meagre sliver of silvery moon shining in the sky. That didn't matter; all her forms held some sort of glory. She seemed almost to be a bow. This was the hunting moon, when his blood boiled with the others, not over some lycanthropic desire, but out of their true connection with _her_. The call was to kill, and he would always obey. How could he not? It was she who ruled his life. And he who ruled them all. Tiny stars pricked the blue-black sky, almost seeming to pulsate around her, entreating her to join them. She never would; instead, she gazed down ever lovingly upon those who were her children.

A cool breeze wafted across the flighty grasses, picking up and then dying down near the expanse of forest behind the ramshackle house. There were snuffs and murmurs from the dark forms littering the ground but nothing was spoken. They were waiting, patient until he moved until he gave some sign to move forth into whatever he had planned.

The sky was a beautiful thing. A frame to the perfection in his life. Claw-like nails scratched through grey, matted hair, easing a sudden itch, a tickle from the grass. Thoughts filtered through his mind as he lay there, unblinking, uncaring, gazing up. They had transformed recently, at behest of her, coming into their right and splendour. The hunt had been without plan but for the blood lust which sprang forth every full moon, the painful shift naught but reminder to what they had to endure to attain perfection. All life was a struggle, wrought with pain and most of it was brought on by him. When he turned, he embraced the agony, enduring it like the warmest of a mate's touch.

He sat up suddenly and shook out his hair, eyes glinting across the land. There was no such thing as pain without pleasure. And usually his pleasure was taken at the pain of others. The heady screams, the warm, sensual spurts of blood as they trickled down his throat. Heated flesh tearing like gentle fabric under the pressure of his fangs, or more often, teeth. The scent of fear dissipating through the air as bodies trembled before him, a feast ready for the taking.

Hunger ripped through his abdomen and he casually placed a hand over his stomach as if that would control the rumblings. But he was hungry for more than just food. As he stood, the rest of the pack perked, eyes all turning to him. The fact that they were all nude bothered, or was even noticed by, none but the newest recruits. Scents, images, the sounds of shrill screams and the pleading for life; this was what flared in Fenrir Greyback's brain as he stretched, rolling his shoulders. How eager he was for more. Slowly the pack stood, the youngest and newest standing last, somewhat nervous. He would give them time to get used to it, to know what it felt to hold power and the truest form of all humans; for what were they but an evolution on the failings of mankind?

But they were still human, or at least, had human traits, left over from their days before this blessing so many called a curse. Fenrir snorted as he flexed his fingers. The fools even went so far as to create a taming potion. Wolfsbane potion, the vilest substance known. What was it about humanity that drove them to control everything they came into contact with? To demand their mastery above all else? Why wouldn't – couldn't – they accept that they were falling behind and a new breed was stepping forth to claim their void? To rip the wolf out of the werewolf . . . why didn't the idiots give Veela a potion to cure their sex drive and beauty? Or clip the claws of Hippogriffs? Why? _Why!_ Rage engulfed him as he seethed, his shoulders hunched, teeth bared. Because, because the wizards and Muggles alike only controlled others when it suited them. They enjoyed the Veela, and didn't care for the Hippogriff. Their dance to mollify the werewolf was an insult, a mockery of all they were.

Oh he was hungry. Hungry to see rivulets of crimson, to see white bone splinter.

"Well, we're in quite the mood, aren't we Alpha?" a voice murmured from beside him, about a foot beneath his ear. Glancing down, he saw one of the elders of his pack staring up at him intently, her dark eyes focused on his.

"Gather the pups," he rasped in return, forcing himself to relax his stance, "we hunt tonight."

* * *

What didn't this woman have filed away? The whole of the Ministry was scribbled down on papers, notes, scraps of parchment. And it all needed to be sorted, categorised, catalogued. This was pathetic. Umbridge was beyond nit-picky, beyond a love for the rules. This woman was obscenely obsessive. Delphia snarled as she jabbed the tip of her quill into a little pot of black ink ("Black Delphia! Only black, unless you're underlining, then it must be two straight lines of red, but close together; not so close however that they're touching! Remember!"). Remember she would: remember the way her hand cramped from the endless writing, the way she winced every time she heard that damned syrupy voice which was enough to make your teeth ache. She had gone into this with an abundance of confidence, having seen the woman and dealt with her momentarily. 

Then she dealt with her for the rest of the day. A feeling of revulsion swept through her to be quickly replaced by a cramping frustration. If her mother _dared_ – oh, speak of the devil. Merlin's bloodied beard.

"Hello Mother," Delphia murmured as she took her quill from the ink and used her want to fix the nub. She had crushed it slightly, rendering it useless. Examining her handiwork she returned to rewriting a crumpled, smeared page of some ancient, useless statute that seemed _so_ important to the toad-woman.

"Delphia," Preia snapped as she jerked the door shut behind her, causing it to snap as sharply as her voice. Her daughter jumped slightly at the noise and her mother's tone, "Lucius informed me of your tardy appearance. I am not pleased and have had to do some quick-talking on your part." Striding over to her daughter with surprising youth, she clutched her child's narrow chin in thin, strong fingers, pinching a little too hard. Lifting her daughter's face to meet her own, the elder woman scowled upon seeing the aversion of Delphia's eyes.

"You will look at me when I speak to you child!"

A shudder of fear went through Delphia. Mommy's baby boys had done mommy proud, but now her little girl seemed the utter failure. Why was it always this way? Her mother's grip on her increased and she visibly winced, able to feel nervous reactions all the way through her jaw. As the pinching got worse, her mother's nails now digging in, she finally lifted her face to the one who had somehow spawned something gentler than herself, looking her almost in the eye.

"You will repay me for the slight on our family honour, for your irresponsibility and for the fast-talk on Lucius. Do I make myself clear Delphia?" Her words were bitten out with a razors edge, the glint in her pale eyes, faded from their once lustrous blue with age, driving more terror into her child than the pain she was causing her.

Belly spasming as agony sealed around her chest, Delphia began blubbering, having no recourse. "I'm sorry Mother, I slept in Mother, it will never happen again Mother I _promise!_" The last bit was heartfelt, tears of pain and dread pricking her eyes. Priea hummed in approval, letting Delphia's chin go as she straightened up. Hunching over, Delphia's hand went immediately to her jaw and rubbed all along it, trying to ease the ache her mother had started.

"How will I repay?" she croaked, blinking away her tears. She just wanted to go back to working damn it – how horrible was that?

Another hum as Preia's eyes went thoughtful, her mind racing. A normal punishment would not suffice. No no, her only girl had to be taught a lesson. She had much riding on her shoulders, more than her name and blood, more than her father's memory. If the idiot child would just wake up she would become useful in so many great ways. After the thought passed through her mind, even Priea had the heart to chide herself. Delphia was anything but stupid. If she was stupid, she'd have taken the mark with her brothers to become a brutal enforcer of the Dark Lord's will. Much more was in store for Delphia; so much more.

"I want my manor clean for once," Preia Sonder barked viciously, bringing her finger to her lips as she considered it. "These damned house-elves of ours . . . you," she snarled, pointing her finger at Delphia now, eyes narrowing, "it is your job to get this mansion cleaned. I am giving you a week." Her voice became kind, "Which I think you will find more than fair."

And dragons excellent pets make. Fighting the scowl as best she could, Delphia knew for fact that what her mother wanted done for the already immaculate manse would take at least a month to complete. Even with a full force of house-elves at her beck and call. Why this for punishment? To show Delphia how good she had it if she just didn't slip up? But no, mother's punishments were never one-sided. There had to be a reason for the mansion to be clean beyond clean. Preia was just taking advantage of this situation.

"Furthermore, you will be punctual from here on in." Pausing as she saw some rebellion flicker in her daughter's face, she slapped her, sending her reeling to the floor. "Did I say something to upset you daughter mine?" she wondered with a slight purr in her voice, everything in her body language dangerous, just daring Delphia to speak.

First her jaw, now her cheek. Writhing on the floor as she held her face, Delphia battled her overwhelming urge to sob. Struggling with the lump in her throat, she shook her head as she sat up, attempting to brush the few tears away as inconspicuously as possible. Surely her slightly late appearance when meeting Lucius couldn't have inspired this much rage. What the hell was going on here, she thought as she worked her way back into her chair, ignoring the stinging sensation in her face, the burning heat where her mother's hand had connected with her flesh.

"As I was saying," Preia continued waspishly, sneering down at her child, wondering when she'd straighten out, "you will be on time, if not early which I would much prefer, every day for work, beginning tomorrow. If you fail me, your brothers are learning new curses. Finally, any information you see on the Dark Lord is to be lost, rewritten, or blatantly lied about to play Potter's insinuations down. Am I clear, or should I bolster my point?"

With those words, Delphia looked weakly to her mother, vision swimming. What had she just asked her to do? Watching Preia slip her wand from her robes, Delphia's eyes went wide, knowing exactly how her mother would reinforce her point.

There were failsafes the matriarch of the family had instilled in her children. Even if you knew nothing, or knew that what faced you was impossible, never let your discomfort or anxiety show. To do so was weakness and no one ever had confidence in the weak. No one of consequence, anyhow. Show you were strong and even when you failed, they would believe your bluffs: after all, you had done everything possible and even one such as yourself hadn't succeeded. It must have been quite the monumental task before you.

"Your mansion will be cleaned by the weekend," Delphia said confidently, throwing herself backwards in her chair the lounge, gazing up at her mother studiously. When the chips were down, act like a haughty bitch.

"That's my baby," Preia cooed, chucking Delphia's chin and placing a loving kiss on her unharmed cheek. Standing straight, she exited the room, much more elegantly than she hand entered. When the door closed behind her svelte form, Delphia leaned forward with a groan, burying her face in her arms. What to do? First thing was first; get the house-elves working day and night. Every floor had to be scrubbed until it was gleaming, all the walls in every room wiped down . . . the ceilings needed a good dust and a wipe as well, not to mention every shelf cleaned thoroughly. The fireplaces had to be swept out and she supposed filling them with fragrant branches artistically displayed would work in her favour. Every bit of furniture, every rug, every bric-a-brac; cleaned, swept, dusted, scrubbed.

Looking down at the paperwork on her desk, she gave a derisive snort. Let the toad-woman rot. Like she would notice that all her pointless work hadn't been done in a single night. Delphia could deal with that when the time came. Simpering seemed to work well with Dolores, she would do that. Stacking the papers neatly, making sure to keep what she had already organised in said organisation, she filled her bag then stuffed the quill and ink inside. What she needed was a book and a good stiff drink.

* * *

Ohhh, how she praised them. Watching as an ever-present mother, loving and sweet, enjoying their revelry as much as they. She commanded them, through their blood, silently, but ever so much more powerful for doing so. Words . . . words would spoil this perfection. There was no use for such useless jumbled articulations. Only the purity of the soul could ever dare to express what they felt, what she, glistening above them, could grant. 

Throwing back his head, droplets of blood flying off his face to the ground, spattering luxuriously to slowly dribble down the grass to be soaked up by soil, Fenrir howled. He howled his joy in the kill, the sweetness of flesh still lingering in his mouth. The beautiful virgin-burst of jugular had been his as he had taken the man down, renting his throat. So gloriously delicious, there was no way to express himself than with her true language.

He howled again, his pack joining in, even the lowest having got a nibble of their prey. All had shared, _basked_ in their hunt. Generosity wasn't a known trait of the wolf, but how could Fenrir deny his pups the taste of their enemy, the blessing she had given upon them. Not tonight, no, he wouldn't hog their meal to himself even though it was his right. All had to feast upon their slaughter, the most delicious meat they stalked. Straightening up, getting clumsily to his feet, still heady with the events of the night, Fenrir spun around as he stared up at the crescent moon.

_We are yours and we will forever obey.

* * *

_

Once the house-elves had been set to work, Delphia sat in the library with her favourite book and a shot of Ogden's Best. Quickly downing the drink and shuddering at the taste, then the blast of fire through her system causing even her fingertips to tingle, she lolled in the chair, staring at the far wall. Bloody hell . . . if she had only known growing up was going to be this difficult, she would have killed herself on the last day of school.

Shaking her head clear of these thoughts, she reached down underneath the small table beside her chair and yanked out a bottle of brandy, the stem of a glass between her fingers. Pouring herself a healthy splash, she sipped at it, swirling idly as she crossed her legs up on the overly large chair and cracked open her book.

_Infamy of Deeds: a History into the World of Werewolves_. It happened to be one of the most interesting books she owned. Rather difficult to find, and even more difficult to get her hands on, Delphia had parted with a good amount of gold deep within Knockturn Alley to buy this little gem. It nearly completed her collection; all she needed was Aübersheir's copy of "Vampires Lurking Amongst Us" and she could say that she was happy with what she had. As it was, what she had was rather substantial. But to find the rest of her books, she'd have to find another dealer. The one she had been going to of late hadn't . . . well, he hadn't been there the next time she showed up. Quick wit got her through that one. She had continued on through the alley and to the Herbologist's, as if she had taken a short cut. Later she had found out that the Ministry had swept down on the shady vendor and had had Aurors staking the area out.

Try explaining that one to mother. A shudder quaked her body, causing the brandy to almost slop. Controlling herself immediately, frowning at her reaction, she knew she had to learn to restrain herself. Moderate, modulate and above all manipulate. How could she convince others of her honesty when her face told all? If her body reacted to a hypothetical, no matter how horrific, how could she face fact and bluff her way through? Oh, if mother had found out about the book, she would have tasted Crucio on that one, that was for sure.

In all reality, she should have been studying one of the even more illegal books bedecking her family library. The one her mother was fond of pressing into her hands was "Jinxes, Hexes and Curses: a Pureblood's handbook to dealing with their lessers". Every upper-class pure-blood family had a copy; it was common fact. Almost all the proper stationed families had got theirs when it was still in publication and completely legal. That status had changed about a century ago, but it didn't stop anyone from reading or using it.

Eyes drifting to the shelf on which the book was situated, Delphia bit her lip. She so wanted to read the chapter on modern werewolf attacks, but she should really try to impress her mother with real study, with progression in her spell casting and repertoire. With a groan, she altered the cover of her werewolf book to look like a text on the Dark Arts and tucked it under the chair. It was as if the need to do well by her mother was calling her, tugging her to the book that would help most. Her feet moved of their own volition, her passion for the forbidden quelled in this need for the encouraged. Crossing the library with barely a hint of recognition as to where she was going, she blinked to find herself across the room. Reaching out to the shelf, her hand closed in on the handbook and yanked it out, flipping it open in a hope to cease this roiling desperation.

What to learn . . . damn it, what _did_ she want to learn? Already she had tried to hone her skill with the curse that caused ones eyes to bleed profusely, only to give her brother a nosebleed. That had been met with much raucous laughter and the curse shot back at herself, perfectly of course. It had taken her mother to end the effects as Delphia's brothers had been rolling on the floor, howling, their eyes streaming as much as their sister's, proving them completely useless. The eldest had been sent screaming across the room with blasts of the Cruciatus, Preia enraged that he would not control his younger siblings and keep a clear enough head to treat an injury, especially when sparring. She had things to do and could not always tend to her adult children's wounds.

There were so many useful things in this book, and yet she could only do a handful with some measure of proficiency. Though, once or twice in her reading, she did find a curse that would have even her brothers gasping for mercy. Oh, that had been delightful fun, finally getting the upper hand, watching as agony flickered through Makrin's eyes, listening to his disjointed pleas. None of them had ever seen or heard of this hex before, but they didn't read much did they? Just the memory of this event was enough to fill Delphia with a sense of power, to straighten her spine and hold her head up high. Striding purposefully back to her chair, she gazed out the massive window stretching two storeys. The moon glistened through the pane of glass, and Delphia just stood there, clutching the book to her chest, hypnotised.

* * *

Helloooo there. Just a little bit of Fenrir to whet the appetite . . . Though there is something canon-wise I need to add in, which means editing (which means hopefully a beta, anyone?). So it may take some time for the next chappies. Anyhoo, please review. Reviews make me write, which makes me post more, faster. Really, I'm not just saying that; I'll forget completely about doing anything with the story, not realise how much time has passed since I've done anything and then suddenly a review will pop up . . . which makes me remember oO Between my puppeh and work, I don't have much time for anything else -- We need more DE/Dark Lord/Fenrir lovin' 'round here. Show your support! 

BL


	5. Chapter IV: I Serve, I Obey

Chapter IV: I Serve, I Obey.  


When she had been sitting at her desk for two hours, copying out the minute writing scribbled all over a parchment that was supposed to be a new bill or amendment or something, Delphia finally heard something worth distracting her from work. Looking up from the mess of ink that Dolores had told her was _printing_, fully expecting the girl to rewrite it neatly (yeah, right, first she'd have to find where it began), Delphia was more than welcome to Katrine's giggling, flushed face as she shut the door behind her. Putting her fingers to her lips, she pressed against the door as it started thudding and shaking somewhat in its frame.

"I took Weasley's glasses," she said in a hushed tone, eyes darting about as she grinned. "He's in a right state he is."

"Delightful," Delphia drolled as she inked her quill. "And as appreciative I am of your interruption," here she gestured to her desk, "I still have all that work you gave me."

"And Umbridge. Don't forget the toad," Katrine piped cheerfully, eliciting a groan from Delphia.

"Yeah, her too," she muttered, putting her face in the palm of her hand in slight exasperation. Glancing up through her fingers as the thudding on the door ceased, she cocked her head in slight curiosity. Katrine returned the look, her brow furrowing, stance relaxing as she glanced over her shoulder. Then she was abruptly hurtled into Delphia's desk when the door flew open, a very angry redhead snarling just within her vision.

"Bloody nutter," Katrine breathed, eyes narrowing as she stared right at Delphia, "stupid weasel. Here," she shouted, turning over on the desk and perching herself between two piles of parchment, "take your damned glasses." She chucked them over to the young man, who snatched them out of the air, perched them on his face and rounded about. He stormed off, leaving Katrine giggling again.

"It's shameless how you two flirt," Delphia said under her breath, looking back down at her work. For that one she got a gentle cuff upside the head, making her chuckle.

"Awww, he's fun to tease," Katrine said as she went to her desk and began sorting through her desks. "He's so uptight that one, he needs a good joke now and then."

"Stealing his glasses counts as a joke?" Delphia retorted, lifting a brow.

"Sure does, especially when he's in the loo."

Snorting with laughter now, Delphia had to force herself to return to work. Katrine was just too off the wall sometimes, and she loved it; it was so different from home and more along the lines of Hogwarts. It was almost comforting having this other person around. After a few moments, the room settled into silence, save the scratching of quills and the rustles of parchment as the girls worked steadily, making their way through the mounds of paperwork Umbridge seemed to have saved for them. When Delphia had inked her quill for the umpteenth time, she knew she had to start investing in self-inking quills, even if her mother said it created laziness. Start with little things and soon you find yourself cutting larger shortcuts. In a world of nuance and subtle manipulation, even the tiniest thing could throw everything off-kilter.

But bloody hell, it was a quill she needed. Sighing and rolling her wrist to ease the cramp, she once again inked her quill and hunkered back in her bunker of papers. The day passed languidly, with creeping ease and Delphia found herself checking the time every half-hour or so. After lunch, Delphia still finishing off her juice, she watched a picture of googly-eyed kittens frolicking when Katrine finally got up. Sensing the other girl's unease, she turned her head to see Katrine biting her lip, worrying over some parchment. Then she walked over to Delphia's desk and handed the paper over.

"I've been instructed to hand over anything pertaining to Potter and his claims that You-Know-Who is back . . . to you." She gave Delphia a curious look but said nothing when she snatched the proffered paper away, looking somewhat disgruntled. Katrine returned to her desk, shooting glances at Delphia every now and then, as Delphia tore herself away from her (ever engrossing, _highly_ entertaining) work. Eyes scanning the parchment, her lips pressed into a fine line, doing a rather impressive imitation of her mother.

It happened to be an inter-Ministry memo, questioning the veracity of the Minister's claims about the Dark Lord and Harry Potter, and that perhaps an inquiry had to be performed to analyze the events during and after the Triwizard Tournament. Thankfully Delphia was smart enough to know enough of what was happening, and what she had been instructed with, to understand what had to be done. Still scanning the parchment, she placed it on her desk and took up her quill, adding her own rejoinder.

"_Mrs Umbridge, while the people have a right to know what happened, they also have the right to not be inundated with fear. To allow such a travesty to proceed, we unlock the door to chaos and mayhem. Even when it is discovered that Potter is just an attention seeker (see: House-Elf incident; Flying Ford Anglia incident, (incl. Whomping Willow incident); Sirius Black incident; Dangerous Hippogriff incident; and of course, who could forget his mysterious entry into the Triwizard Tournament), we will have stirred up so much conjecture and hypothesis that even when truth is exposed, the minds of the populous will have been so rattled, that nothing can soothe them._

"_For someone to try and split the Ministry on such a sensitive topic when we all need to be united to be able to lead as a strong government, is underhanded and reprehensible. If I may be so bold as to add my own opinion, such a person should be dealt with immediately and most harshly._

"_Delphia."_

She just hoped that enough mention of every huge occurrence Harry had been involved in would insinuate the point that he really was nothing but a hyperactive, thrill-seeking, attention grabbing, little boy. Giving her notation a once-over, she then tucked it into Umbridge's in box, hoping that she had done well by those who counted on her. Even if her job was so tiny, so seemingly unimportant, she knew how truly important the small dainty manoeuvres were to the world. By adding her own supposition into everything she could, she helped in a small way as she was one more voice strengthening the whole. One more person who agreed with the Ministry; and when a lot of people did that, it created quite the crowd.

Happy with her work for the day, Delphia set into her regular routine with a smirk on her face, making Katrine wonder.

* * *

In the sumptuous ever-stretching front gardens of the Sonder mansion the sounds of laughter, ricocheting spells and the cries of pain when one managed to hit, could be heard through the trees and paths. Delphia strode purposefully up one of the footpaths, walking from the Apparation point to the front door, ignoring the sounds of her brothers, not wishing to be caught in the crossfire. Especially after she had actually done something worth being proud of. She wanted to tell her mother about the memo, what she had done to take care of it; that she was playing her part and doing right by her family name, her father.

Hiking the shoulder strap of her bag higher up so it would stay secure as she jogged, she made it nearly to the door when a figure burst out of the bushes, blocking her path. Shrieking, Delphia dropped her bag and immediately went for her wand, knowing even as she did that it was a useless gesture.

"Come home already eh?" Jaeger, the eldest of the family, sauntered casually around his little sister, taking her slowly in. "You look like a prim, proper lady of our society, doing what she will for the Dark Lord." Rounding her quickly, he gripped her shoulders, looking almost worried. "What's happened to you Delphia?" he teased, his pale eyes sparkling, creating quite the contrast with his nearly black hair.

She lifted a brow as she tucked her wand back into her robes. Bending over, her brother letting go of her, she grabbed her bag. "If you made me break anything, I swear I'll Crucio you."

He snorted with laughter, peeking over Delphia's shoulder as the sounds of running could be clearly heard echoing off the flagstones. In a moment, the other two brother's appeared, somewhat battle-worn.

"I won!" Kieran announced as he was jostled by Makrin, obviously in debate over who was truly triumphant.

"You both lost," Jaeger snapped as his eyes narrowed, everything about him losing the warmth it had only seconds before. Now he was a firm, harsh-lined man who would brook no argument and lash out the moment he was angered. Delphia stared up at him, amazed by how much he took after their father; saving the eyes and cheekbones. Everything about his words, however, reminded her of their mother. He was as cruel and unforgiving: except when it came to his little sister.

"No bloody way," Makrin snarled as he stalked lithely over to his much larger brother. The two beside each other created a vast disparity. Whereas Jaeger was slender, he was well-built and still well-proportioned to his height. Makrin on the other hand looked too stretched even though he was a couple inches shorter than the eldest. He was wiry and took after their mother physically but still had their father's height. Delphia often thought he resembled an elastic band with the way he could bend and twist and seem so frail, but never break.

Scowling, Jaeger jerked his head in the direction of the front door, looking to Delphia. She nodded to him and scooted past the three men, ignoring the argument and summary brawl that broke out as she shut the door. Heaving a sigh, she leaned against the heavy wood and shut her eyes for a moment. The screams of a broken nose, then enragement came muffled through the door, making Delphia shake her head with some amusement. She was positive it had been Makrin bellowing, knowing that Jaeger was quite adept at Muggle fighting. He had had to learn, as Makrin and Kieran were always slightly quicker with the wand, usually disarming him in the beginning of a duel. Jaeger wasn't one to give up, however, and just went at them with his fists. Their mother had never beaten her eldest for this idiosyncrasy, for if he was ever disarmed in true battle, then she wouldn't have to worry about him running in terror or standing in shocked fear as the final curse was cast. He could still fight, no matter the circumstances.

If, however, any of the others decided to take up the habit, they would have been dealt with most swiftly. Heading deeper into the front hall, Delphia stripped off her over cloak and snapped her fingers. A house-elf was immediately in attendance and took her things, putting her cloak away and taking her things to her room the instant he disappeared. She went to fling the doors to the inner house open, but halted when she heard the front door bang against the wall, a gust of fresh air brushing against her back; instead of continuing, she turned about to see Makrin hurtling inside and up the staircase to their wing of the mansion as he held his face, blood oozing from between his fingers. Behind him was Jaeger, shaking his hand, and flexing his fingers. Kieran followed, giggling profusely as he handed his oldest brother his fallen wand. It seemed she had been right; Makrin had unarmed Jaeger when his older brother's ruling had angered him, and got right back what he deserved. Idiots. Never disarm Jaeger unless you wanted black eyes, broken teeth and a busted nose. Boys never truly learned, she supposed as she went through the doors and into another hallway, even when they became men.

* * *

The pack was tired from their hunt and as they usually lazed around most of the day, being nocturnal by much of their nature, and had no desire to join Fenrir on his run. For some reason, their Alpha had been full of energy of late, taking to the woods around their ramshackle excuse for a den to just hurtle through the trees and over and down rocks. He didn't mind that no one wanted to join him, it wasn't something he would enforce; besides, he enjoyed these times alone, not having to think of others, not being forced to lead. Bounding around a tree, he jumped up, bouncing off a boulder and down the other side. Looking around, he then sat, resting his back against the rough surface of stone, and brought his knees up, resting his arms atop them. Breathing in deep, he just savoured the scent of the sweet summer's air, mingling with upturned soil and the smell of small furry animals. He wouldn't bother with them, there was no point. His belly was still relatively full from the night before, and if he wanted food, he would break into someone's home and take what he needed. For now, he would just delight in his quiet time.

He was somewhat annoyed now that the Dark Lord was back. Not with the presence of the Dark Lord himself, but by the fact that even with his re-emergence, Fenrir had no more freedoms than before. Bide his time, he had to bide his time, that's all he would be told. Fresh flesh and children weren't his, not yet, not until the Dark Lord said they were. Sometimes he took without being offered, such was his way, such was what he had been doing for decades. But he couldn't come right out and just start attacking people for "a low profile" was desired at the moment.

Huffing in exasperation, Fenrir raked his nails through the dry dirt on the ground, idly wondering when his – their – time would come. All he wanted was what was rightfully his, the ability to hunt and turn those he so chose. Not every child made a good werewolf, but the ones that did were easy to sniff out. Sometimes he had no choice in the transformation, and even those he wouldn't have changed had to be infected. It took more patience with these children, teaching them and bringing them up into adulthood, but sometimes, just sometimes, they were worth the effort. His elder Aneya was one of them. He had been as surprised as she when she took to the taste of blood. Even better was that she ended up being quite cunning, able to plot out a perfect hunt over the course of days. As always, there were those glorious exceptions.

Curling his hand into a fist, he punched the ground in exasperation. Their mother moon was telling him something and he couldn't hear it. All he knew was that it tingled through him and made him feel like a green pup, bounding around the ankles of the Alpha, wanting to be taken out for their first kill. Vigour and unrest coursed through him, driving him to search for that more dangerous prey, causing him to run and fall and get back up until he was exhausted and covered in bruises. Still the tingling never ceased, his limbs twitching and begging to be let go at all hours, making sleep quite sporadic. Looking up at the sky, branches blocked most of the blue view from his light brown eyes, so light they seemed golden. Even if it was day, he still knew the moon was up there, watching him. _What is it you want from me? I obey, what is it?_ Snarling as he leapt up, he shook his head free of these thoughts. This was no way for an Alpha to be behaving, indecisive and fidgety. If one of the maturing whelps sniffed Fenrir's current agitation out, he might be of the mind to challenge for supremacy. It was more along the lines of instinct, rather than death wish, and so Fenrir couldn't blame the fools for taking him on. He merely ended it with broken bones and deep slashes so next time, they'd think twice. The last thing he needed was to thin his own ranks over what he himself had taught them, and what the moon demanded.

Strolling through the woods now, deep in thought as he traced his old path, one he had worn through bushes, rock faces and massive ancient trees from his running and walking over the years. What to do? Perhaps this twinging inside him was merely from the fact that though the Dark Lord was back, he could still do nothing. He was so close, _so close_ to what he desired and yet it was still just barely out of reach. Making an attempt to shake himself free of this feeling once more, he snarled and wondered . . . could he afford another hunt? So soon and so close to the meeting? He had been told it would happen soon but as he looked to the mark on his inner left arm, he wondered . . . The restrictions wouldn't be lifted in a few days, so it didn't matter what he did. A hunt it was, and perhaps it would help cease this teenage disquiet.

* * *

The mansion was a huge maze, but the Sonder children never really realised just how confusing it was, having been raised in the labyrinthine home. Making her way through the corridors and hallways, Delphia came upon the sliding door into the family's private parlour without thinking twice about her direction and entered, standing respectfully until her mother acknowledged her. As it was Preia was sitting in her favourite chair, one she had brought into the home when she had married, and one only she was allowed to use. It was the only feminine object in the whole of the home, excepting the women's bedrooms, and almost shameful, which was why no one but the family was allowed in this room.

"Daughter," Preia finally murmured, flickering her eyes up from her book, giving her a slight stare.

"Mother," Delphia returned, walking over and kneeling beside the chair, so she wouldn't be looming over her parent. Instead, she was looking up, almost obediently, trying to fight the grin. "I have news."

Closing her book with surprising elegance, everything this woman did a carefully wrought play; Preia took in her child's slightly flushed face, the eager twinkle in her dark eyes.

"I have served you well, Mother," Delphia said proudly, unable to mask her excitement any longer.

"Was that Makrin I heard storming up the stairs?" she wondered, sounding completely serious, as if Delphia's words were of little consequence. Delphia's face faltered, angering for a second. For once she had done right, for once she would prove to her mother that she _was_ worth something, and all she cared about was whether Makrin had been stomping his feet like a little boy!

"Yes," she replied through gritted teeth. "That was Makrin."

Preia's lips twisted with amusement at Delphia's expression and tight tone. The poor dear got worked up all too easily, which was made it so much fun.

"You're being rude, Delphia."

She blinked and paled slightly. Then, bowing her head, she nodded. "I apologise Mother." Lifting her face back up, she breathed deeply, giving a little quirk of the brow and a slight shrug. "Yes, it was Makrin. He had disarmed Jaeger."

"Ah, I see. Foolish."

"My thoughts exactly, Mother," Delphia returned smoothly.

"Now what is it child?" Preia demanded, wondering what had caused her daughter to bristle with such excitement. "Did you kill Potter?" Struggling to withhold her laughter, she gazed intently on her child with complete seriousness.

Her eyes went wide as she was visibly taken aback. "I – I didn't realise –"

Chuckling, Preia reached out and took her daughter's hand, stroking it gently. "Worry not my little one," she purred, "that is the Dark Lord's prerogative anyhow. What made you enter this room with such pep?"

"I . . ." damn, after her mother had said that, her tiny little job seemed so stupid, so inconsequential. "There was a memo," she finally said, plunging in, "wondering if we shouldn't investigate Potter's claim. I added my own addendum and sent it to Umbridge, swaying her off the path. I pretty much said that Potter is a liar, that we all need to stand firm before his accusations, and anyone who said otherwise was trying to destroy the Ministry and should be dealt with harshly."

Preia's face lit up as she cupped her daughter's cheek, smiling endearingly. "My baby girl," she sighed, holding her face in both palms now. "Your father would be so proud." She placed a light kiss on the tip of Delphia's nose, startling the girl somewhat. Had what she had done been so important? It couldn't be, she scoffed. Then again . . . one more voice in the crowd to bolster Umbridge's self-importance . . . One more person telling her that this denial was the right thing to do, that Potter was a fraud, would only help to convince her that she was right.

"Go. Tend to your brother's nose."

"I never said –" Delphia spluttered as she stood, eyes widening. How did her mother know?

"Jaeger is my son," she said firmly as she returned to her book, "and he always goes for Makrin's nose. Perhaps he is jealous that for all his good looks, Makrin is the prettier of the two."

_Or perhaps because Makrin keeps trying to usurp Jaeger's rightful place as head of us and needs to be taught his place._ She said nothing, however, just nodded to her mother and headed for the door. As she crossed the threshold into the hallway, Preia called out to her.

"Delphia. You have done well. Stay this course and we will see what the next few weeks hold in store for you." With those mysterious words, the door slid shut behind Delphia, making her wonder what the hell was going on around here. However, she knew she had no time for idle curiosity. Checking on the house-elves to make sure they were doubling their efforts to have the mansion scrubbed completely down, she then went to Makrin's room to tend to his face. He had been surly upon seeing her, but allowed her to tend to his wounds. The boys may have been brutally cruel when it came to her lack of skills with curses, but when she approached them after a duel to fix them up, they never complained.

Taking a few minutes to siphon off the blood that had dribbled down her brother's front, Delphia allowed it to bleed as she reset the bone. He had winced but nothing else. Waving her wand over his nose, it slowly healed until there was only a tender bruising left. She disappeared into his washroom for a moment and returned with a cool, damp washcloth. Handing it over so he could mop up the last of the blood and keep the swelling down, she exited his room, not a word having been spoken.

Perhaps they did all know their places.

* * *

Well, there's some more for you guys! I've been working my ass off . . . over 50 hours a week for the past month, let's see what else is in store for me! Besides that, 360 and Guild Wars havebeen getting in the way (and UFC: anyone else see Ortiz get his ass PWNED?! WOOT ICEMAN!!). But I will try to write more soon. I did some editing further on to include a familar face that I kinda forgot about Oo Heh. Mah bad. Thank you so much guys for the reviews. I know I don't get many; perhaps, er, this isn't that popular with the general crowd; I'm sure if I did some Harry/Ginny fluff, I'd be rolling in the reviews. But what you guys give me means a lot. Every time I see a new review it really makes me want to write, no matter that it's two in the morning after work and UFC night! So your imput really does make a difference! (Not trolling for reviews, just saying how much I is teh lovin' all yous ) Thanks oodles guys.  
Fenrir and Delphia will be meeting shortly. How shortly? Hmmm, you'll have to see, won't you ;) Isn't the suspence just killing you?! I know it is me, and I wrote the damned thing! Don't worry, the lead up is worth it because uh, they really like each other, it turns out. But shhhhh! Don't tell her mother! Is a secret   
A.Violet! I is teh missin' j00! And so is CHeWi!  
BL 


	6. Chapter V: Infiltration of Allies

Chapter V: Infiltration of Allies

By early afternoon the scene was taped off with bright, yellow ribbons of plastic bearing the black words "crime scene". Flashing red and blue lights filled the lawn as men wandered the area, shaking their heads, desperately attempting to dislodge the images from their minds. A rookie was still trembling on his knees, leaning weakly against the side of the brick house, the remnants of his lunch spilt over the grass, and partially in the garden. He, along with the others, never wanted to see that ever again. Even in movies. The flashbacks would be too horrific. Their precinct lieutenant was leaning over him, squeezing his shoulder, swallowing down his own bile. But he had seen horrible things through his career; he had learned to turn off just enough. Still, this had been . . . animalistic. The savagery couldn't be human, but there was no mistaking the thought that went into the attack.

What animal would prolong bleeding for the sake of torture? That thought made him shiver. It had to be human, but the attack, the teeth marks, the eating of flesh . . . even in his psych classes where they had studied serial killers couldn't live up to this. Sure cannibals could tear the flesh off their victims, but not like _this_. Not to mention the clawing. If he hadn't seen the ropes himself, he would have sworn a bear did it. He would have thought more along the lines of "tiger", but there were none of those around, were there?

"I dunno lieu," the rookie gasped, wiping his mouth as a water bottle was passed to him. He took it gratefully, rinsing out his mouth and spatting the dirty water into the perfectly manicured grass. "The only time I've seen something like this is, y'know, like, in the _movies._ It doesn't happen in real life, y'know?"

Unfortunately, his blatant denial of fact was undercut by the fact that not fifty yards away the barn housed the crime scene of a century. The only thing he could even begin comparing it to was the Whitechapel Murders. Which was a horrible thought.

"What'd this guy do?" the lieutenant murmured to himself, his eyes narrowed, fixated on the door, not willing to look at the shimmering darkness within, the tendrils beginning to creep along the dirt crusted floor to the outside world. "Who the hell deserves this? Not even murderers deserve this treatment."

"The limbs were half _eaten_," the officer kneeling on the grass remarked, his voice becoming shrill. "Bones fuckin' gnawed on like some effing dog got a hold of them."

"Coroners prelim says that they were human bites, not animal."

"Yeah, but it took him awhile to say. Help me up," he grunted, reaching up, clasping the arm of the other man, being hauled to his feet.

"You okay?"

Rolling his shoulders, he popped his neck a few times and heaved a sigh. "Just glad I'm not the coroner."

As for the coroner, he was having a somewhat easier time than the others. After all, he had to deal with decade-old exhumed remains and drowned, bloated, decomposing bodies; not to mention suicides, all as a matter of course. Crouching over the body, circling slowly around it with a clipboard in his hands, a pen poised and ready, he just stared for a long moment. Then he checked the left-over humerus to make sure his eyes hadn't been fooling him. Shite . . . he sighed and nodded at his notations. Exactly what he had thought. He had just hoped he had been mistaken. The bone was splintered at the half-way point: the rest of it was gone, along with the lower arm and hand. Fragments of flesh and bone scattered the area, but he couldn't tell what that was from, as the destruction of the body was near total. Peering up inside the hollow tube of a bone that was left, he suppressed the disgusted quaking of his body. The marrow had been sucked right out.

The other arm, however, was still fairly intact, though there were chunks missing from it and most of it was bloodied from what, if he wanted to overstep his professionalism and become descriptive, looked like frantic, hungry gnawing. He added that in a side notation, to help get the point across whenever they brought the man who did this to justice. Cops were always more superfluous with their language and lawyers even moreso. But when trying to explain this to a jury, how did one do it any credit without going off on a poetic bend?

Not even bothering to double-check the bloodied morass of a torso, from which he had already noticed that some organs were missing, he just examined the legs. One had, from his best guesses, been dislocated and then cut off, most likely with an average sized straight-edged blade. They had found the lower half of the leg tossed aside; apparently it had been dragged around and chewed on but not enough to completely destroy the tool marks and the torn tendons. The thighbone, on the other hand, was another matter. It was down to a stub, as if powerful jaws and teeth had chewed on it like (as the cop had mentioned unbeknownst to him) a dog.

Sweeping his eyes over the remains, he just shook his head. Odd how the genitals hadn't even been touched. Limbs chewed rabidly, torso torn open – the blood loss was staggering, there was more blood on the floor than in the body – it was absolutely fiendish and yet it seemed there had been absolutely _no_ sexual aspect to the crime at all. Centering himself with a deep breath, he shut his eyes momentarily and stood, gripping his clipboard hard. He never wanted to see anything like this ever again.

Back outside, the bobbies huddled together as they attempted to settle their minds and stomachs, none of them noticed the shabby looking man strolling by. Eyes narrowed, the man sniffed the air and peered over, wondering what was going on. But instinct flared; he knew it wasn't a good idea to be around. A solitary unkempt man, probably with some blood on his robes, wandering outside a crime scene as the only spectator? Even _he_ knew that wasn't a good idea. Continuing on, staying as inconspicuous as possible, he heard voices on the breeze as he wandered away.

"I can't believe . . . savagery . . ."

"I'm tellin' you . . . dog . . . effing dog . . ."

"Who the hell . . . eat a man? . . ."

Blinking a few times, the shabby man just shook his head with a slight growl. Stupid. How could one man be so _bloody stupid?!_ He _had_ to understand Muggles better than that, had to know the reaction to his "fun and feast"; dinner and a show, as it were. Not to mention the trouble it could get him into from all sides. While the Order, Muggles and the wizarding world in general would be horrified by the crime (if they even found out about it), You-Know-Who would be a little more than irate for the drawing of attention. Both sides could only hope that no one would pay any interest and no one would know.

As for himself, he had to steel himself to the inevitable, knowing that soon he too would be partaking in this level of brutality. His time getting ready for this last step had exposed him to things he hadn't been a part of in a few years. However, those warm ups were nothing compared to what he could just imagine was in that barn. He could smell the sticky metallic-sweet of the blood still, almost an echo in his mind. By Merlin, but he just couldn't do it. Screwing up his eyes tight, finally recognising the area, he knew he had no choice, no matter how he was loathe to join back in. He had escaped as soon as he could. Had tried to lead a normal life – as much as the Ministry would allow. And here he was, jumping back into what he hated most. But it was to help the Order, the Headmaster. And Harry. Damn it, he had no choice.

A pop could be heard reverberating through the street, but there was nothing there to have made a sound.

* * *

The success of their hunt had made the pack lethargic. Even the younglings had eaten enough to feel satiated. As it was midday, they were just lounging about the living room of their den, not speaking, barely awake. The elders were sprawled contentedly in ragged chairs while the pack proper were all lazing on the floor. As for Fenrir, he was on the only couch, clutching at his stuffed belly, collapsed on his back with his limbs akimbo. 

"I ate too much," he finally groaned, causing the figures on the chairs to chuckle and smirk.

"But dinner was so delicious," Horan, one of the male elders, commented as he picked at his teeth. "A tad wiry and gamey, but still, fresh and bloody."

Nodding his agreement, Fenrir rolled over slightly, pulling his leg up onto the couch to join the other. Sighing through his nose, he shut his eyes, squinting them almost, as if to expunge an unwelcome thought. He did feel better; hell, he felt infinitely better than he had only the day before. Still, something other than dinner was twinging in his gut, and it wasn't indigestion. What the hell was wrong with him? He had shaken off this odd feeling, slackened it with blood and flesh and bone. The offerings to the moon should have sufficed, the showing of their might even when not in her thrall was supposed to have healed him of this . . . this _something_. There was no name to the unease, the squirming of his spine. It just was, it had never been, and it was quite disconcerting. Bah, what foolishness was this, to be whim to some unnamed wrenching in his stomach? Better to be without it, to forget it.

Flopping over with a huff, his brow furrowed as he picked up some vague sound from his lands. It was a . . . a wizard sound. Sitting up slowly, he strained his hearing. He could have been imagining it. It might have been nothing, perhaps his mind wanting to join the insanity of his body. So hard was his concentration that he nearly leapt when there was a knock at the door. The rest of the pack merely lifted their heads curiously, feeling absolutely no threat. Why should they? They could rend a man literally limb from limb as they wished. What intruder would give forewarning anyhow?

All eyes went to Fenrir and he grunted, standing up slowly. He didn't even think about perhaps throwing on some robes. Picking his way through limbs and bodies, completely ignoring the half-curious glances, Fenrir went to the door and pulled it open, peering outside.

What he saw on his stoop made him, not so much grin, as _leer_ toothfully at the poorly dressed man before him.

"Well, well, well," Fenrir rasped with a snicker, "so the prodigal son has returned." Even as a thrill went through him to know that his rebel wolfling had returned, caution took hold, rooted within his brain. His eyes narrowed then, a slight scowl twisting his mouth until he was positively glowering at the man who had once been the price of misdeed.

Could he really have come back with the knowledge that the Dark Lord would rise to power, that the world he so desperately tried to fit into was about to come crumbling down and lay wasted at his feet? He had always been so pure, so self-righteous . . . so naively disgusting. No matter how Fenrir had tried to teach him, he had only done right by the pack to avoid beatings. The boy could be rather pragmatic, Greyback had to admit, and he did admire that in anyone. But he had chosen the wrong side, the one that would lose in the end. So he had to suspect his motives.

Lupin steeled himself as he looked up at the large, rangy man, forced himself to accept the scent that came wafting at him from the house. Fenrir smelt as he always did, there was really no change in him. Or was there? He couldn't help the quick sniff, rechecking the curious scent clinging to him. Something was eating at the werewolf before him, though he was doing a remarkable job at covering it up. Perhaps it was just an element of the suspicion that had sprung up about them.

"What are you doing here?" Fenrir half-snarled, half-barked, his fingers curling against the doorframe.

"He . . . You-Know-Who has returned," Lupin began even as he suppressed the shudder, reminding himself of what his lies would do for _the cause_, "and this time . . ." He coughed and looked away a moment before setting his eyes right on Fenrir's. "After last year, I realise I have no place in the Wizarding world. Only You-Know-Who will give us any sort of freedom. That's all I've ever asked for; and I'll do what I can for it."

Arching his brows, Greyback gave the not-so-young Remus a long look-over. He had been correct; pragmatism had been, and forever would be, the boy – man's – driving force. Fighting against the gnawing feeling in his chest, Fenrir took a step back and allowed the clothed man into the house. The door shut onto the grounds and only the wind was heard, rustling through the woods.

* * *

The brutal murder hadn't been released into Muggle press, but it was being reviewed by the Ministry. Something had smelled odd about this one, and with an anonymous tip mentioning some magical aspect to it, they had investigated. The debate to release the nature of such a thing to the general public had been short and in favour of the nay-sayers. Few had argued for it, Albus Dumbledore being nearly the only voice, stating that if the Ministry wouldn't tell them about a lurking danger in their midst then by Merlin, they had to know that there was an obviously violent one there. Fudge had been quick on the attack, his little toady pitbull ready to back him up, her saccharine comments and smiles only making things worse and an even larger podium for Fudge to address his agenda. 

By the end of a debate, it wasn't so much a discussion anymore, but blatant propaganda for the Ministry. Something had to be done, yes; that was for Aurors. They would be sent out secretly to assess the situation and whether it warranted Ministry attention. To incite panic over something that probably had nothing to do with their people (for after all, what was an anonymous tip?) when they had been working so hard to keep the people calm and safe after the Quidditch World Cup and Hogwarts events would be sheer idiocy. Anarchy would rule, wizards and witches would band up as vigilantes; one could _not_ have a society based on such chaos!

In the end, Dumbledore's move to have the information released, even in a toned down version for easier consumption by the masses, was vetoed down. To Albus's mind, it truly was a staggering blow. They couldn't even tell people of a potential threat because it wasn't within the realm of the Ministry's view on how the world should be. It was obvious they'd rather have their people stupid, blind and dead. The grief it caused him was agony; he couldn't believe he was hearing any of this. He had got up, trying not to look defeated. Instead, he had the airs of someone severely disappointed as he looked at those gathered around him and had just shook his head.

Sitting in her office, Delphia had no idea what had just transpired. Instead she and Katrine passed a ball of paper across the room to one another, using their wands. They kept trying to get the other to miss or to send it back poorly, but they both, strangely enough, seemed rather good at this game. At the sound of the door knob, both jolted to attention in their seats, setting their wands down as the ball of paper fell to the floor. The door opened even as both girls grabbed the closest pieces of parchment and started pretending to work. They could feel Umbridge's sickening smile as she entered the room and saw both working so assiduously.

The toad woman giggled a flighty hello to the pair and both Katrine and Delphia lifted their heads, giving her practised smiles and they allowed their aimless writing to halt for show. Then they ducked their heads and returned to their "work", leaving Umbridge feeling even better about herself (such good staff she kept) as she made her way into her office.

Katrine and Delphia glanced at one another and suppressed the snorts of laughter. They kept their lips firmly shut until tears pricked their eyes. It was the little dumb things that were always hysterical, that always made it possible to get through the day. Without those, life just wouldn't have been worth it. It would have been droll, monotonous, boring. Well, it was those things, in fact, but this helped to break up the routine.

Having the time now to find their real work, both girls shuffled through their papers and found what they should have been doing earlier, setting to it before being questioned why the day's work had not been finished. The last thing Delphia needed was to be brought to attention for shoddy work, or even fired. That would have ruined her Mother's plans, would have ruined everything. Even though she loathed it, she really did set to work, doubling her efforts in her paranoia, just in case. What if Umbridge did know how much she and Katrine goofed-off? She had to prove that no matter what, everything would be done. One never knew; there could always be a spy about.

* * *

There's a little more for everyone. Hope you enjoyed n.n Please review? Reviews always make me write more. Is nice to be appreciated, especially with such an odd-ball story XD 

BL


	7. Chapter VI: Welcome Home, Milord

Chapter VI: Welcome Home, Milord.

It felt as though Delphia lived and breathed work. She woke up with the sun to leave the house, the elves having breakfast ready on the table so she could take off quickly. Once she had eaten, she was gone, through the gardens to the Apparation point, her bag slung over her shoulder, filled with the work from the night before. When she got to the Ministry and to her office, it was work until lunch, then work after lunch until she went home. Once she was home and had supped, it was even more work, finishing off cataloguing parchments, rewriting torn or otherwise damaged, incomprehensible papers by others, and doing all that wonderful sundry writing for Umbridge. By the end of the week, she had invested in quite a few self-inking quills, defending her expenditure to her tight-lipped mother. Mercifully in the end Preia had nodded sharply, allowing her child this one shortcut. With all the writing she was up against, at least she wasn't asking for a quick-notes quill. As well, Preia was pleased with Delphia's work and thought she deserved this one small reward.

Thankfully, by the weekend, the mansion was completely spotless. Everything had been scrubbed as Delphia had ordered, even the ceilings and walls were gleaming in their perfection. The place looked almost new again, if one could ignore the lived-in feel, the centuries of history and curios and the ease with which the inhabitants drifted from room to room, wing to wing. The house-elves were quite pleased with their work as well, but when Delphia went to double-check that everything had been done, down to the branches in the fireplaces, she was ignored.

"We is busy Miss," one of the female elves squeaked, bustling about in the kitchen, making dinner Delphia assumed. Though, it looked like quite the feast. A congratulation on her first weeks of work perhaps?

"She is meaning no disrespect Miss," a very old male with a long, long nose and droopy ears said as he bowed deeply. "She is being very young and being very occupied Miss. We is having orders from the Missus, we is having no time for anything else."

Frowning slightly, Delphia gave the assembled elves a nod, knowing that she was being nit-picky anyhow. Everything was finished, she had made sure of it, and if her mother was having them do work on something else, who was she to interrupt? Especially if it was her dinner. Sniffing the air, she nearly salivated at the luxurious scents. Fresh puff pastry was being rolled out on a large marble counter, layer after layer of butter and dough, repeatedly folded and rolled again to continue the process until there were hundreds, thousands of layers. Pots of bones and vegetables were scattered across the range, the beginnings of demi-glace and espagnole visible. Walking over to an oven, she caught a whiff of a lamb shank and she knelt to better smell the savoury rosemary-olive oil rub. Ohhh, this was a meal she would never forget. She could already taste the complimentary wines, the multiple courses as they passed over the table . . . In a slight daze she left the kitchens, her stomach rumbling. There was only one way to get her mind off her appetite and it sure as hell wasn't work.

Gliding through the halls to the library, she entered and made her way down to the bottom floor. She glanced around bookshelves and around partitions to make sure no one else was in there, then settled into her chair and yanked her "Dark Arts" book out from underneath. Tapping her wand in the corner of the book, it quickly changed back to her copy of "Infamy of Deeds: a History into the World of Werewolves". Brushing her fingertips tenderly over the embossed letters, the shape of a woodcut etched in leather, a smile crept to her face. She had earned it. Earned it as surely as the meal awaiting her a few hours from now. The rumble in her belly could be ignored, easily ignored, with the prospect of that glorious dinner.

Flipping the pages to the chapter on modern werewolves and their signatures (ie: their methods, the way they killed and the theories why), she first read up on Synrax Bentclaw, a werewolf whose slight deformity in no way belied his absolute ruthlessness. He had been known in the Mediterranean for at least a century and the best guess was that he had come from somewhere in Europe. Though that, even the author admitted, was complete speculation. Those who had somehow seen him or heard him speak swore he was Italian, but there was absolutely no substantial proof on the matter. He was a mystery, though his attacks were well-known. It seemed he quite enjoyed wiping out blocks of people. Muggles more often than not, the occupants of lengths of houses slaughtered mercilessly. On the dusk of the full moon, he would randomly "choose" a set of homes and rape nearly anything that moved, gathering every person into one area. How he managed that feat was still a mystery. There was some talk about a pack aiding him. However, there was no question about what happened next: when the moon came up and touched him, he went into his frenzy, killing everyone that had been gathered together. Why he did it wasn't known, and what point he was trying to prove was just as nebulous. It was further surmised that he just did it for the sheer pleasure of his visceral, debauched desires; either way, it couldn't be proven.

The next werewolf on the page was one Corinthe Sanguine, whose history was an absolute mystery. No one knew where he had originally hailed from, or where he was bitten, or which century either happened. All people had known was to fear him. He was nothing like the other werewolves; he was smarter, stealthier and preferred more brains to his brawn. Unlike the other werewolves of the time, he took more after his cousin wolf, hunting in a definite pack with strategy, stalking out singular prey, flushing his victims from a larger group. Rumours had said he had a mate, but no one had actually seen anything resembling that, nor had names or a corpse. It was generally accepted that he had been the one to sire Fenrir Greyback (see below) and had spent a long time leading his pack afterwards, before finally being put down.

Eyes drifting downward of their own accord, Delphia took in the bolded, underlined name of _Fenrir Greyback_. A chill went down her spine. This was by far her favourite werewolf. Perhaps it was because he was still (technically) active, or because her father had actually known him. And maybe, just maybe, because he had the most written on him. Where the other werewolves had a few paragraphs, he had a few _pages_. And anyone deserving pages upon pages in a general book made them special in Delphia's eyes. Turning the page over, she saw a rough drawing of the man-wolf. It wasn't all that flattering, in fact, she could remember a better picture of him in her father's things. It was a group picture, he and his associates, one that had been kept hidden from the Ministry all these years. While the Death Eaters weren't stupid enough to leave evidence just lying around, they were also people and for the most part, friends. Her father, she recalled, had respected Greyback's brutality. And what brutality it was. Scanning the pages, she read voraciously, as quickly as she could before settling back for a more languid read.

Some girls swooned over the bad-boys in Azkaban. Delphia had a thing for men who shifted into an unearthly form at the full moon. Even Lupin hadn't escaped her stare, though he was much too tame for her tastes. He tried overly hard to be a normal wizard, instead of embracing his feral side. Still, he was the closest she had ever come to a werewolf and it had been so difficult to contain her knowledge and excitement in sixth year. Where the others had been oblivious to the signs, she recognised all of them: his agitation near the full moon, his days missing when the moon was full . . . Snape's essay (which she heard the whole school had partaken in, though at different difficulty levels depending on the year they were in) had been the clincher, telling her exactly what she already knew. She was being taught by a _werewolf_. A trained, docile one, but a werewolf nonetheless.

Delphia remembered a small, tight-knit underground fan club that had started in the Slytherin Common Room when Sirius Black had escaped. The girls involved said that someone who had done so much for the Dark Lord only deserved to be praised. She hadn't bothered telling them what her mother had said about Black being a Death Eater as much as Harry Potter was. Besides, the Death Eater thing was their excuse; they just wanted that bad boy who had faced the odds, killed a bunch of people (so was said. Mother had always been tight lipped about that one) and had escaped Azkaban yet. Delphia couldn't judge nor blame them. She had her own perversion.

Hearing footfalls on the winding stairs down to the main floor of the library, Delphia tapped the corner of her book with her wand once more, reading casually. As the sound became louder, a soft rustling of silken dress robes and the toeing of covered feet, she lifted her face to gaze at her mother.

Preia took her studious daughter in, revelling in the sight of her further learning the Dark Arts. The child really needed more practise; theory, however, would help as well. For some reason her hex-work was a bit underdeveloped, and so if she could find help in one of the ancient, or not so ancient, books dotting the over-stocked library, so be it.

"The house is magnificent," Preia said as she eased herself into one of the large chairs near Delphia.

Nodding at the compliment, she allowed her eyes to drift shut momentarily. "Thank you Mother. I was hoping my work was satisfactory."

"Hm," was all she returned, though thoughtfully. "The elves said you were in the kitchens?"

Starting slightly, Delphia's brows arched. "Yes. I wished to double check with them, to make sure everything had, in fact, been done."

"Quite the feast they're preparing, isn't it?" Preia's voice was as smooth as the resplendent, almost modest gown of deep green she wore. Her quick eyes took in the spark and sudden smirk of her daughter.

_Yes, quite the feast_, Delphia thought to herself as her eyes glinted. Oh, she couldn't wait to taste the living-greens salad or the slices of perfectly tender lamb. Upon seeing the almost mocking look her mother was giving her, she realised she had done something very wrong.

"Eager, are we?" Preia wondered with a snicker, knowing her child thought the food for herself. It was unfortunate that the girl was so easy to read, but perhaps she would learn with time. Once she could start hiding herself from her own mother, begin lying with confidence, she would be completely prepared for her life.

Delphia's mouth attempted to form words but her brain just wouldn't settle on what to say. After a moment of silence, she shrugged as if she didn't really care. "I'm just very hungry. I haven't eaten much today." Letting out a little laugh, she tossed her hair and leaned her head back against the chair. "My hunger is getting to my mind as well."

_Very good child, you almost had me._ Smiling sweetly now, Preia lifted herself gingerly out of the chair, the only hint to her advancing age. "That mauve dress-robe of yours," she began, causing Delphia to grasp desperately onto this new conversation, "you will wear it tonight." Seeing her daughter's question forming in her face, she shook her head. "Do not question me Delphia, you know the punishment for disobedience. Take your book to your room and remain there until you are called. You are to be dressed and presentable when you enter our home proper. If you are not . . ." the matriarch trailed off with an indulgent smirk and pinched Delphia's cheek none-too-kindly. "Again, you know your punishments, don't you darling." It wasn't a question. Yet it still demanded response.

"Yes Mother," she sighed, rubbing her cheek as her mother let go and wandered off, leaving her alone once more in the massive library.

Having no choice but to listen to her mother, Delphia scooped up her forbidden book and tromped off to her room. She was so wrapped up in her mind that she didn't even notice the impulsive duel that had broken out in the upper landing. Makrin and Kieran were shooting hexes at one another, running and ducking all over the hallway that was almost as large as a ballroom. Delphia strode right through, not even taking heed, until Jaeger grabbed her arm and hauled her around a corner.

"You want to get killed you idiot chit of a girl?" he snapped, shaking her slightly.

"What?" Staring at her eldest brother, the sounds of giggles, grunts and shouts filled her ears. "Oh, yeah, sorry."

He gave her a look, wondering what the hell was going through her head, then stormed off with a snort, going back to his refereeing. Delphia shook off the feel of his hands and continued onto her room, where she shut the door on Kieran's wails as some curse or another finally made contact. Really, mother coddled him too much. Sometimes he acted like an absolute baby. Walking through her sitting room, she tossed her book on her bed then went to her wardrobe. Searching through the masses of colourful and not-so-colourful robes she owned, Delphia finally spotted her mauve one. Pulling it out, she decided she would wear her bronze jewellery with it. Silver just wouldn't look right, and anyhow, it looked as if her mother had the monopoly on silver this night.

* * *

The house was perfect for His arrival. Preia hadn't felt the urge to be giddy in a long time, but right now, she could feel it welling up inside her as if she was a young woman on her wedding night. In a way, it truly was almost like that. He would be coming, along with most of the old crowd. Oh sure, some were still stuck in Azkaban, but there were enough left for a revel. The Dark Lord, at least, seemed to think there were more than enough to continue with the old ways. Or, to make a start on them once more. 

Straightening up the vast dining room herself, she wanted to make sure everything was just so. When the table was fine and had passed her dust and shine test (a finger across the surface), she ordered the doors onto the living room opened. That way, everyone could mingle, get their foods as they wished, then continue mingling in the comfort of the living room, or take to the outdoors through the clear, polished glass doors at the back. A small stone porch wound around the back, statues visible in the distance as one walked its expanse, tasteful plants drooping over their cement pots on each small pillar dotting the walkway. Men had such the habit of wandering aimlessly outside when they were discussing important things. She had chosen this room with care, knowing who would be arriving.

Looking over the room with a careful eye, she wondered if perhaps it was too hot to leave the doors to the back open. Maybe she could tempt a breeze – but no, it was best for them to stay shut until the party had already commenced, allowing those bored with the topics freedom and time to themselves or their favourites for hushed conversation. It wasn't wise to hand that out right away, when important issues had to be discussed. Eyes scanning the room once more, it was only practice that kept Preia's hand from flying to her mouth as she gasped.

His chair. She didn't have a proper chair set out for _Him_! How insulting, what a travesty that would be. To invite Him into her home, as she once had done, and to not even have it fully prepared. Well, she would have to rectify that immediately. Clapping her hands sharply, a pair of elves appeared before her in rags that were once dishtowels, bowing deeply.

"The Missus is calling us? Is she in needing of something?" the old male elf squeaked.

"Yes, quite," Preia murmured. "I need a chair befitting the Dark Lord to be set up for Him, and He alone."

Daring to lift his head up to look at his mistress, the house-elf almost looked to have tears in his eyes. "The Dark Lord He is coming here? Again? Oh Missus! We is finding His old chair, we is!" And he disappeared with a little poof, the second elf disappearing a split second later. A few moments later they reappeared with a dusty old chair that resembled a modest throne; where they had managed to scrounge up the old thing, Preia had no idea. The attic, or the cellar. Somewhere she never went. Leave it to the elves to keep something so precious, on the off-chance of needing it once more.

"Clean it. I want it gleaming as if it was new," Preia demanded, eying the chair with distaste now. What had happened to it? Her husband had brought it home, so proud of finding something suitable for the Dark Lord's first meeting in their house. Now it looked pathetic and old. She examined her hands momentarily and shut her eyes. They lived on through their children, and she would prove that fact. No matter how old she was getting, she would never stop.

"We is having it clean, Missus," the second elf said after some time, Preia lost in her own thoughts. Her pale eyes opened slowly and she took in the chair, nearly smiling at the sight. As she had commanded, it looked almost new. It could never be as stunning as it had been over a decade ago, but still, it held that charm, that power it always had. Within its curves and sharp lines was the reminder that the Dark Lord alone was great enough to sit on it. He would remember. Would there be a slight turning of His mouth as He gazed upon their past, as if nothing had happened in the interim? Would there be praise of her loyalty, a loyalty so firm and everlasting that she would think of even the tiniest things for Him? The opening of her home alone to so many pure-bloods and all available Death Eaters, not to mention a sumptuous meal, was more than enough to prove her fealty. This, this was subtle reminder of who and what she was, and was still. It was the tiny things. Always the tiny ones.

* * *

The grouping started with the Notts, Parkinsons and Malfoys arriving nearly at the same time. Preia greeted her guests kindly but with haughty airs that were befitting her. They all murmured at the opulence that still bedecked the manor home, being led off personally by Preia herself to the dining room. Thankfully everything they needed was in the immediate area, so they wouldn't have to brave the labyrinthine home on their lonesome. When in the dining room, Preia had to beg off to gather her children, receiving accepting nods from the couples, Lucius bowing and scooping up her hand in a rather gentlemanly manner, kissing her still smooth flesh. A flutter went through her, reminding her of the old days. Could they be coming back? Sweeping off, Preia first went to a near-by room to gather her sons, magnificent in their robes, each tailored to augment their bodies and features. Upon seeing their mother, they stood respectfully then followed her out of the room and down the halls to the dining room, where their guests had been waiting barely a minute. 

"I apologise," Preia murmured to those gathered, knowing full-well she could have had an elf get her boys, but wanting the image of her leading these three powerful men seared in the minds of those gathered. They would gossip, murmur breathily about the stunning juxtaposition of the family, the strength they all exuded, as well as the absolute obedience the sons had for their mother. These second-hand tales would prove more useful than a full gathering catching glimpse.

"It is quite alright," Lucius said congenially, walking over to shake the hands of the men, who fell right into step. "Who could blame a mother for wishing to show off her great sons?"

Preia fell into murmuring, allowing her cheeks to blush somewhat. "Thank you Lucius, you _are_ too kind."

"And your daughter?" Narcissa wondered as she peered around the bulk of the men blocking the doorway, "is she coming as well?"

Before Lucius could retort with the scathing bite on his tongue, Preia smiled amiably at the others.

"She will be joining us later in the night. Poor dear, she has so much work to do. She practically begged me to allow her late entry, as she's finishing up some paperwork for Dolores. How could I deny her?" she finished, looking the image of the embarrassedly indulgent mother. Her reply took Lucius aback somewhat and he returned to his wife, wondering if perhaps the girl wasn't too young and irresponsible after all.

* * *

Tossing a crumpled bit of paper up towards the canopy of her bed, Delphia repeatedly caught it, only missing it twice in the last half-hour. Even she had become bored of her book, her trepidation over the night interfering with her concentration. Finally she had set it aside out of frustration and the questioning of how many times she needed to read the same damned section. Now she had settled on tossing a makeshift ball to herself even as the wafting scent of food lulled her into thinking about heading downstairs. She could smell that meal and it affected her greatly. 

The talk about not really eating all day hadn't been a lie. And she had so wanted all that food to herself. As she thought about it, her mouth watered slightly, knowing she could make a good dent in everything on her own. The image of puff pastry filtered through her mind, wondering what it was going to be turned into. Salmon Wellington? Beef? Little slices topped with miscellaneous foods for hors d'oeuvres? The demi-glace told her there would be more than lamb shank on the table, for the lamb itself needed next to nothing to top it; perhaps a simple jus? Breathing in deeply, she thought she caught the whiff of fresh dill, butter and lemon; fish, oh, how she adored fresh seafood. She knew that was the failsafe for fish, though she did adore a mango-jalapeno salsa with her blackened catfish. Bolting upright in bed, she couldn't take the torture anymore. What if her mother _had_ ordered blackened catfish with her favourite fixings? Could she even dive in with her ravenous hunger? From below, she could hear the muffled sounds of conversation and the clinking of glasses; she could feel the movements and talk vibrating up through the floor into her bed. With so many people partaking of the feast, she would have to be demure and pick daintily at her food, instead of leaping in. If it was up to her, she'd have used her hands to scoop everything within reach into her rapacious mouth. Unfortunately, not much seemed to be up to her, and she knew she had better self-control than that.

Lobbing the wadded up parchment from one hand to another, she waited another half-an-hour, now worrying idly about wrinkling her meticulous robes. She had even put on makeup in her boredom, knowing it would go over well though she usually didn't wear it. When she stood and threw the paper into a corner, she walked over to her vanity and stopped short. She knew what she looked like, but the way she looked now caused her breath to catch. The image staring back at her was that of a grown woman, ready to face the pure-blooded world, to partake in their merrymaking. Not that of a girl fresh out of school, in a world she was worried was far too big for her. Still staring at her reflection, wondering when this seemingly sudden maturity had occurred (or was it her mind playing tricks on her?) she didn't even notice the house-elf until it tugged on the skirts of her robe.

"Miss? If Miss will be coming down with us?" the elf said in the high pitched voice characteristic of the whole race. Delphia stared at the elf with an almost sad expression. They had both been born into something they couldn't do anything but accept. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she nodded at the elf who took off, heading across her rooms and out the door.

Well, I had been kinda hoping for reviews, but I'll just keep posting I guess. And thank you so very, very much to those who take the time to review. Even though there aren't many, it means a lot to me. This story is eating up a lot of my life and it's good to know it's worth it, on some level. Anyway, there's a LOT more story to come; I'm on chapter 34. And chapter seven, which should be up in relatively short time, is when the story REALLY starts. Hint-hint, nudge-nudge, say no more, a wink's as good as a nod, eh? Anyhoo, I hope whoever is reading is enjoying. This is an absolute joy to write, it's so much fun, and I hope that those individuals who are actually reading are enjoying it as much as I am. Stick in there; you're getting into the "good" stuff SOON.

BL


	8. Chapter VII: I Know of You

Chapter VII: I Know of You, Yet Know Nothing  


The elf had thankfully taken Delphia down the old servant staircase, still there from back in the days when there were more than just house-elves tending to a family. The main staircase led to the front and it was quite the trek back to the dining room, whereas the servant staircase led out near the kitchens, which were of course situated near where the family would dine. The house-elf took her to the doors to the dining room out of habit then disappeared, leaving Delphia alone, fighting with her fear. Her breathing was irregular as she felt her jaw tremble slightly. Wetting her lips she looked around, steeling herself to the inevitable, she forced herself to focus and calm her thumping chest. The dark wood of the walls seemed to shift as her eyes passed over the panels, to twist and warp; but when she looked again everything was normal. Then it felt as if everything was throbbing, moving slowly in on her as the hall surely shrank and squeezed down on her heart. Inhaling a deep, shaky breath, she gritted her teeth and stamped her foot insolently. The slight jar awoke her system, sent new life through her nerves, and brought her back to reality. She found herself wondering why she should be so nervous. There were a lot of people in there, and from the sounds of it, they were having no issues with being around each other. This was _her_ home. Why should she be afraid to enter a single room? Not doing that well in convincing herself she still knew she had no choice. As she went to press her hand against one of the doors, they both opened automatically for her, pulled apart by unseen house-elves. Gulping, she took a step through the threshold, the aural force of the party nearly causing her to take a step back.

This wasn't how a proper woman acted, she chided herself. This was her home, her family and her party, no matter how unimportant she was. She could at least carry herself with the decorum and pride owing to her. Striding elegantly into the dining room, candle light glistening softly off the dark sheen of the table where there weren't platters of food covering it, she blinked. The lighting was muted, subtle, and only added to the beauty of everything. The food basked in delicate golden glow, the candles making it only ever so much more tempting. Throats, necks and wrists flashed as light caught the jewellery the women were wearing, making it more stunning in the dimness. In this light, no one was ostentatious; they were all ideal.

Heads turned slightly as she went to the table, having no idea what to do. The lull of food was great and she was worried that her stomach would begin rumbling in an unbecoming way. Ladies didn't sweat and they most certainly didn't growl; especially from lower areas. It was sudden the way it happened: one minute there were a few glances in her direction as she mulled over the selection of succulent foods, then conversations ceased and all eyes were on her. The crash of sound into utter stillness was almost an assault on her unsuspecting ears; it sounded like someone had cast a rather powerful silencing spell on the whole of the revellers. Apparently, as she found a moment later, that wasn't true.

"Darling," Preia cried softly as she glided over to her daughter and caught her up in a proper embrace, clutching her hands and placing chaste kisses on each of Delphia's soft cheeks. "I was wondering when you would show. I'm so glad you took the time from your work to come see us," she added with a slight chuckle, showing Delphia off to everyone.

Ah, so this was another of her mother's machinations. Well, she knew better than to argue it. Forcing a fetching blush, she ducked her head slightly, giving her lashes a slight bat. Even her brother's brows lifted slightly. Delphia, the little Quidditch playing book worm was wearing a _dress_ to a _party_? And makeup? Wasn't she supposed to be wearing demure robes to her desk-job and staying in the background? This wasn't exactly what the boys were used to; everyone was looking at her and _approving_.

"I'm sorry I'm so late," she breathed, her dark eyes taking everyone in, letting each know the apology was for them alone, "but I was so engrossed in my work that I completely lost track of time." Giving out a little laugh, she placed a hand on the swell of her chest as if discomfited by the hilarity of the situation.

"Quite alright," Preia murmured, linking her arm with her daughter's, allowing her to be the only one at the moment to escort her. A slight squeeze told Delphia more than her mother's twisting words ever could: she had done well.

Her stomach coiling in on itself as it let off a few grumbles Delphia was tempted to look back longingly at the stretch of food she was steadily being led away from. She had no choice but to go with her mother into the living room, escorting her around while ignoring the glowers from her younger two brothers as best she could and ignoring the equally proud beaming of their eldest sibling as he took another sip of his brandy. There wasn't much to worry about from them anyhow; a moment later, they were set upon by a group of rough looking men and began an animated discussion with them. Delphia assumed it was about torture or cursing Muggles or something, because Makrin's brown eyes had lit right up.

As Preia guided her child through the living room, making it look for all the world that Delphia was leading her mother as a doting daughter, she nudged Delphia with her hip, an inconspicuous motion. A slight nod of her head and the set of her eyes and mouth made Delphia turn her head slightly. Biting down the gasp, she took in the visage of a man oozing power, a man whose face resembled that of a snake, with a slitted nose and red eyes. Currently He was engaged in conversation with a couple men and a woman; Death Eaters she assumed, seeing the visible mark upon the woman's arm, bared only by the fact that she was wearing slinky dress robes. She couldn't help the thrill that went through her, to be gazing upon the most powerful wizard in existence, one who had risen back from the dead to take His rightful place at the head of wizarding society. It was Delphia who should have been there near His side, sipping dry red wine and wearing next to nothing while being a murderous sociopath. That was _her_ place. The spitting jealousy swept her away until her eyes burned, wanting to be there, wanting to taste His power. Preia felt her daughter's reaction and smiled inwardly. It was time.

Leading her over to the Dark Lord, Preia went to tell Delphia to bow, went to push her gently to stress the importance of this gesture, but there was no need. Her eyes wide, mouth slightly open, Delphia sank to her knees, just staring in wonder. After a moment the Dark Lord turned His head, sensing this new presence, and He seemed to smirk a little.

"Ahhh, the youngest Sonder decides to finally bless us with her presence?" His voice was hissing yet melodic. She felt hypnotised by Him and understood immediately why all these people swore allegiance to Him, why her father had died for His cause. He was might incarnate, and gazing into those eyes she saw the world spread before her, beckoning her into it. She wanted it, wanted to grasp what was rightfully hers, what was hers by birthright, and she knew He saw it in her. The jealousy rose until it consumed her, wanting to cast aside not just the woman but the men as well, to prove to the Dark Lord that she was one of the few worthy of chatting so casually with Him.

"She's a little small," a rasping bark of a voice mocked from behind her, breaking through her reverie. The jealousy evaporated, but the sense of still wanting that power, needing to grasp onto what the Dark Lord could offer, lingered. A shadow was cast over and past her body as a rather large figure stepped up to the grouping.

"Size is not always an indicator of strength," Preia chided, "surely even you know that, Greyback?"

Her mind reeled, torn from all that she had been feeling only a second previous. Oh how she wanted to tear her eyes from the Dark Lord's, her muscles stiffening at the knowledge that Fenrir-freaking-_Greyback_ was standing right behind her. Never mind he had made fun of her, that didn't matter. All she wanted to do was turn and look upon him, to see the werewolf she had read about so many times. The werewolf she had tried to find in Remus Lupin and had failed, even if Greyback had infected him.

"The girl is overcome," the Dark Lord said with some mirth in His voice as His red eyes raked her own brown ones, "we are overwhelming her with so much in so little time. Allow her to breathe," He commanded, eyes flickering to Preia's. With a gesture, He allowed her to stand, returning His attention to those flocking Him. Breathing slowly and deeply, Delphia got back onto her feet, ignoring the ache in her knees. Her mother had gone off, leaving her alone in the throng of Death Eaters and standing pinned between Fenrir Greyback and the Dark Lord. Trembling slightly at the thought of it, she turned slowly, casually, to finally see Greyback in the flesh. Coming about, her eyes took in the scene and her heart plummeted somewhere in the region of her aching stomach.

Fenrir was nowhere to be seen. Tensing her muscles and fighting the scowl, Delphia balled her hands into fists and wanted to storm back to the table and pile up a plate full of food, skulking away to eat in a dark corner until she was ready to burst. Instead, she put on a slight pout of innocent wonder and strode gracefully back into the dining room, picking at choice bits of food, not taking even a fraction of what her body told her she needed. Eating self-consciously, her eyes wandered across the room as she listened to snippets of conversation. There was nowhere for her to join in, nothing for her to add her opinion on. She was an outcast here, she had no place yet. Seeing that the back doors were open to the yard, she decided that making a refined bow out without actually removing herself from the revelry would be the wisest course of action. Making her way to the door, unimpeded by anyone wishing to speak with her (and of such low position in the Ministry with all these big-shots around, not to mention she without a mark, who would want to?), Delphia walked out onto the porch and took a deep breath of air.

Her stomach was doing flip flops, her chest felt as if it was going to implode at any moment and her limbs were nearly jelly. Oh bloody hell what was she doing here? She didn't belong; she was so out of place. There was nothing for her to add to the party, no information, no conversation. She felt like an ornament, momentarily admired then forgotten as more important matters were attended to.

"You smell how I feel." Turning her head to the rasping grunt, Delphia's eyes went wide as galleons. She watched as Fenrir slowly turned his head to look her over, a momentary interest gleaming in his golden eyes. Then he noticed her expression and looked more amazed than anything.

"Usually," he muttered, taking a step towards her to test the waters – when she didn't back away in fear, he took another step, "people run screaming from me."

Her mouth moved and she was suddenly afraid she'd start articulating nonsense. She watched as his brows lifted then settled into confusion.

"Fenrir Greyback," she whispered, feeling like whimpering and clutching her chest.

Letting out a low, husky laugh, he eyed her. "So I am. Forgot for a moment."

Blushing at his comment, she was hasty to cover up her blunder. "I'm sorry, it's just . . ." trailing off, she shrugged, trying her best to ignore the warmth of her flush.

"What, whelp?" he demanded, looking down at his hands and picking off a thin sliver of bleu steak from the strip of puff pastry he had been holding. Tossing the pastry aside, he popped the meat in his mouth. At least they had attempted to cater to his tastes. Most didn't even bother, even though they wanted him on their good side. Then again, Preia had never been a fool and made sure everyone and everything was taken care of. A good Alpha female.

Delphia was sure she was deep red and strangely enough, the first thought in her mind was, "I must be clashing horribly with my robes," just causing her to blush even more.

"I've, I've read so much about you," she finally breathed, still gazing up at him in awe. To be standing before him in the flesh was like nothing she could have imagined. He looked like a werewolf even though he was presently human. There was a sense of power, of control, that permeated him in a completely different way from the Dark Lord; but it was altogether just as strong. And enticing. Moving closer, her hand trembling slightly on the railing she wanted to grip for balance, she inhaled and nearly fell over. He smelt . . . like blood, nature, sweat . . . Her belly trembled and though she was hungry, she knew the ache had nothing to do with food.

His eyes took her in once more and it was as if he was looking at her for the first time that night. He had already commented on her size, but there was a presence, a strength of character that he could scent on her. She stood there, before a man who wasn't really a man, whom could kill her in an instant. But she was enraptured rather than filled with apprehension.

In fact, he couldn't sense a modicum of fear from her. Now it was his turn to be shocked and somewhat surprised. This was a first.

"You've read about me have you?" he wondered, needing to fill the silence with _something_. Perhaps she would prove to be some entertaining twit. Leaning over the floor-level balcony, he gazed out at nothingness, seeing all.

She nodded, and was sure he had seen the movement though he didn't show any registering of it. "Yes," she said lowly, glancing around as she worried her lip. "I have books, books my Mother would beat me for."

"Risks can make things more tantalizing," Greyback rasped, picking at his teeth with a sharp yellowed nail.

"Y-yes, I suppose that's true." She paused and straightened her back. "In fact, that _is_ true. But . . . that's not why I read. Perhaps what makes it a bit more fun, but . . ." allowing her sentence to drop, she gave him a nonchalant shrug.

"What books?" he wondered, sounding bored as he looked to her.

"Well, on werewolves," she said bluntly. "Vampires as well, but my," she coughed delicately, "passion is for werewolves."

He looked highly amused. "An overprotected, _pure-blood_ child having an interest in something dangerous? How original." His words were almost as scathing as his tone. Delphia winced slightly, taking half a step back, feeling thoroughly chastised. If she had had a tail, it would have been firmly planted between her haunches.

Smelling her discontent on the air, he shook his head with a smirk, idly scratching at the back of his neck.

Was he humoured by her? The thought sent flares of resentment through her body. "That is _not_ why I read," she bit out, seeing his definite mirth at the situation, becoming even more irate at how he was ridiculing her. "I'm just honestly interested and I do not know why. Alright?"

Snarling at her tone and the smell of fury, he whipped about and moved lithely to her in the matter of a second, hovering over her.

"I could kill you in an instant. Does _that_ interest you?" he demanded, licking his lips like she was nothing but an enticing meal.

Her hand was on her wand in a trice. She knew that she couldn't do much, but he didn't have to know that. Besides, she had a small repertoire of hexes that would have him howling long enough for her to escape, not to mention gather the attention of the Death Eaters present.

"Even your twig can't save you from me."

Delphia was hard-pressed to explain the feeling that came over her as he said that. Her muscles clenched and she actually, for the first time in her life though she had never understood how anyone could ever do it, felt like swooning.

Once again, her reaction to him staggered him. He responded to it with a gruff chuckle. So she _was_ amusing, though not the twit he had first imagined her to be. No, it seemed the thick-headedness stopped at her brothers.

"I-I—" she started, unable to finish what she was trying to say, unable to even put together what her whole being wanted her to utter.

"I-I," he mocked in a high-pitched whine, eyes narrowing. "Spit it out whelp."

"I want to learn," she said on a wide-eyed breath, hand relaxing slightly on her wand. She felt jittery, anxious and something else, something she couldn't place or perhaps didn't want to place, but was just as real.

"You want to learn?" Fenrir couldn't keep the incredulity out of his bark-like voice or off his face.

She nodded serenely, glancing about once more to see if anyone was intruding upon them. Witnessing no threat to this line of conversation, she nodded once more this time with resolution.

"Yes, I want to learn." She shrugged and ducked her head down, not wanting to admit her failings, especially to him, but knowing she had no choice. "I . . . I'm not so good with curses," she muttered, holding her wand up so he could see it. Lifting her eyes to meet his, she shifted her weight slightly. "I read about werewolf attacks, your attacks, how you hunt and kill." Her face brightened substantially. "There's so much more appeal in the brutal, visceral way of your slaughter, than in the waving of a wand."

"Really?" he murmured thoughtfully, examining the wand in her hand. Reaching out, he tore it from her grasp and tossed it over the stone railing into the grass. She gasped and took a step backwards, truly frightened now. With her wand she could have done _something_ against him. Perhaps not much, but she still had a chance at survival. Now she felt as thoroughly denuded as if he had just torn her robes from her frame. There was nothing an unarmed witch could do against a fully grown, battle-hardened werewolf. She was at his mercy and she shuddered, unable to stop the weakening of her limbs as he moved in closer. His scent overwhelmed her, his proximity both terrifying and intoxicating. She could feel his heat, his absolute presence as they stared at each other, chests heaving. When she saw movement her eyes drifted horrified from his face to his side as his hand went into his ill-fitting robes. She felt winded, whimpering as he withdrew a dagger.

She knew nothing about this man – creature – being – werewolf – _whatever_ – and attempting to be politically correct with a blade in her face, or at least pointed in her general direction, should have been the last thing on her mind. Yet she had still approached him with her brainless marvelling, her idiotic demand. Fear seemed to be doing strange things to her head; even her body was confused. Her chest clenched with utter dread as everything below her waist went soft. What was he going to do, she wondered as her eyes locked once more on his, would he really harm her to prove some stupid point? This self-questioning made her realise that while she had read plenty about him she knew now that she didn't _know_ him. Even more frightening, was she would have liked to have the chance.

He watched her face, saw her body quiver. Now he sensed fear from her, mingling with a slight musky scent of – no, that was impossible and his imagination. Tossing the dagger up, he flipped it in the air and caught the blade gently in his calloused hand. With a quiet, curious sound of offering, he proffered the hilt to her. The poor thing seemed about to wet herself. And as comical as her fear was, he was more interested in the other smells he was trying not to allow his mind to register. Blinking in disbelief, she stared up at him, then down at the knife, the fear fading away to astonishment and curiosity. Even those astoundingly delicious tendrils wrapping up her spine dissipated. Gingerly reaching out, her fingers curled languidly around the handle, causing Fenrir to stifle the sudden moan that welled up. Somehow the image of her taking a true weapon in her hand was one of the most stirring things he had ever seen.

"My wand?" she murmured even as she glinted light off the enchanted blade, examining the permanently razor-sharp edge in the mixed cast from the living room and moonlight from above.

"I can teach you to kill, to really kill," he informed her in a hoarse voice, entranced by her childlike examination of the bloodstained tool in her palm.

Looking at him as if she hadn't seen him before, she shook off the haze settling around her, around them. Pushing the knife back at him, she set her mouth firmly. "No, I can't take this. It's yours. Please."

Gently he shoved her back with an indulgent snicker. "Keep it. I have many more, and I prefer to use my hands."

With that, her gaze dropped to his hands and that clenching of her muscles came back, a warmth welling up inside her. He could kill her so easily, with one casual swipe. It would be inanely effortless for him to send her sprawling on the ground, setting upon her with teeth bared. The image of him perched atop her, a feral leer on his face, caused her belly to turn into a tight knot. Her eyes went to his and she felt something pass silently between them, an understanding of sorts. Withdrawing with the dagger still in her hand, she nodded politely.

"Thank you," she said, studying her robes, trying to find an unobtrusive spot to place the blade. Fenrir watched her confusion for a moment, admiring the way she twisted in attempt to find just the right spot.

"Here," he finally said, reaching out and pushing the slit skirts of her robe aside, baring her thigh. He inhaled deeply and attempted to ignore the twitching of his body. Delphia gasped and wanted to move away, horrified by the touch, and even more horrified by how she reacted. It felt natural, good even. And she wasn't supposed to feel that way with anyone, especially a werewolf. Most especially Fenrir Greyback.

With gentle nails he slid her garter up higher, taking the moment to indulge by pressing his palm against the silken flesh of her leg. Narrowing his eyes in anger at the thrill within him, he snatched the blade from her and tucked it safely into the makeshift thong, allowing her skirts to fall back down.

After a breathless moment, Delphia gathered herself, curling her hands into fists and allowing her nails to bite into her palms. Nodding to him, she set her jaw, quailing against the maelstrom burning inside her.

"Thank you," she managed to grunt, moving her leg back and forth to see if anyone could tell there was a weapon under her robes. She couldn't make out any discernable difference and doubted anyone else would either. Now she just had to deal with Greyback's shocking animal magnetism and the way her body responded to his nearness, let alone his briefest of touches. This wasn't allowed, she told herself sternly, you aren't really feeling this fluttering, this squirming of your insides. You're just in awe of someone you've studied, someone who in your wildest dreams you never thought to meet. That is all, Delphia, that's _it._

"I'll get your wand," Fenrir informed her through his gritted, pointed teeth before leaping over the partition between pathway and grass. She arched her body over the railing and heard him snuffing about the area; then it stopped and she figured he had found it. A moment later, he was back over the railing and was handing her the fallen (carelessly tossed) wand. She didn't ask how he had found it so fast; his sense of smell was much better than her own, she knew that much. But if he had already scented her enough to find that which belonged to her, what else had he sniffed out? Smiling stiffly at him, she gripped her wand tightly and tucked it into her robe.

Then she strode purposefully back into the living room, leaving him there with plants and a soft breeze.

* * *

Well, there it is! Finally! And this is just the beginning . . . Hope you guys enjoyed And thank you to everyone who has reviewed. It means a lot, it really does. Danke. Anyway, there's plenty more fic to come.  
BL 


	9. Chapter VIII: Wanting In

Chapter VIII: Wanting In.

The course of the following week felt like sweet agony to Delphia. She applied herself as best she could to her work, for all appearances still the same young woman she had ever been. But at every spare moment, she would pull the blade out from under her robes and examine it, admiring the rust-coloured stains bedecking the metal, the slight wearing of the handle. He had used it, that much she could tell, but how long ago was the question. Though he said he preferred his hands, it must have been impossible to kill every victim with claws and teeth, especially when in his human form. Still he was confident enough in his skills (and his reputation?) to part with something probably as old as himself, something he had relied on. A tingling went down her spine as she drew her fingers along the side of the knife, her chest clenching. He had given her something of his so she could learn. Shite, they hadn't really talked further of that had they? Instead, she thought as she looked back, they had both acted like a pair of bumbling fools, trying desperately to not say or do anything stupid. Or too forward.

That thought made her whole body weak as she sank down in her chair, willing back the wistful sigh. No, no, no! This was _Fenrir Greyback_ she was thinking about, not some cute little puppy. Though . . . he did have his charms. No! Delphia, no! She had to shake herself to free her mind of her insane thoughts, to cease the tremulousness of her body. This was inexplicable how she reacted to the mere thought of him. The feel of his rough hand against her thigh, _oh Merlin yes,_ she groaned in her mind, tipping her head back as her eyes closed. That had been heaven. Her flesh flared as she experienced it all over, so fresh in memory.

And that smell (shouldn't it have been disgusting?) further teased her senses until she was nearly writhing at her desk, trying her hardest to prevent herself from reacting physically. The last thing she needed was Katrine asking questions, especially since she liked the girl. That train of thought sobered Delphia up slightly and she sat up in her chair, staring down blankly at the remnants of the day's work on her desk. Furthermore, she didn't even know the man. She had a brief interlude with him, no matter how strange she felt during and after. He had stoked fear in her, but oh, so much more as well. Holding her head in her hands, she shut her eyes. She didn't like the way she felt. It should have been so forbidden, so wrong. Damn it, she didn't know him; how could she allow herself to become so worked up over nothing?

It had to have been her confusion and unease over the night working on her. Yes, that was it, coupled with her total awe and then her fear, to create this strange craving her body clamoured for. Instinct told her what she wanted; her mind told her what she needed. And the last thing she needed was to be dippy over some violent werewolf.

But that was partially the attraction, wasn't it? There was no attraction, she tried to convince herself, nothing at all. She knew it was a lie even as she thought it. For now, she resolutely informed herself, shoving away all her burgeoning feelings, she had to learn from him. That was all she wanted. Information, to know, to really learn to hunt.

How though, how? How could she get close enough to him, have legitimate reason to not only speak with him, but to go off and be taught? Mind drifting to the party, she thought of everyone there. They could speak with him, with each other. Her brothers seemed to do fine on their own, unlike herself. But they all had the Mark, didn't they?

Immediately her eyes lit up as her brows arched. Pursing her lips she couldn't help the stunning revelation. That was it, it was so _simple_. Now she just had to convince her mother. And that would be a job and a half. Preia had already sacrificed her husband and handed over her sons. She wouldn't want to give up her last remaining child, even if she did disappoint her sometimes.

Eager to get home now, Delphia spent the last couple hours trying to think up a way of breaching the subject and how to make her mother see that the Mark was the way for her to go. The Dark Lord had started her need for power, her quest for what she had seen lurking in His eyes; Fenrir was just her clincher. She wanted both. And damn it, she would get what she wanted.

The home was once more looking as it normally did; the throne back in its hiding spot, all the food in the kitchen, packed away for Delphia. Preia had been impressed by the short showing of her daughter, even more impressed by the fact that the girl had known her place and knew not to interfere. So she had made sure that the food Delphia had obviously been craving was left for her to eat at her leisure. She also had the feeling that her daughter _had_ been overwhelmed, but not in the way the Dark Lord had assumed. Or at least, not in the exact same way. Yes, it was a lot for Delphia to take in, but she got the sense that her daughter had wanted to jump right into the fray. The glint in her child's eyes was so much like the one Preia had seen in the mirror many times over the years. Delphia wanted power, wanted the world spread at her feet.

And she would get it. Preia would see to that. Her child would be powerful; she had groomed her specifically for this. Delphia would be more than some mindless drone, doing the bidding of the Dark Lord. She was to be a thinker, a schemer and a plotter. It was her duty to her family and her blood to do no less.

Preia knew it wouldn't be long before Delphia approached her about the Mark. She had seen her child's eagerness, her trembling anticipation as she had headed up to her room when the night was nearing its close. The time was near for her to prove herself. But how would she do that, Preia wondered. There was more at stake than just hurting others and not being caught. She had ambition to push her child into the Inner Circle, to take the place of her father, the spot Preia would have had if she hadn't been married and had children. Now though, she could do the outright best for Delphia, aiding her in claiming what Preia couldn't. That meant, however, that Delphia would need to prove her wits, her cunning. She couldn't just go take the Mark and have it over with, automatically accepted. Her worth had to be proven before that, before she could make a fool of herself.

Her test, Preia mulled to herself as she strode aimlessly through her manse, what would it be . . .?

* * *

Delphia arrived to what seemed to be an empty house. She crept through the halls, expecting a sudden attack from one of her brothers, but none was forthcoming. Furrowing her brow, she headed to the kitchen for a snack, knowing there was food waiting for her there. Her mother had been sending some of it in her lunch every day and she ate more of it upon arriving home. Walking through the house, dropping her bag off with an elf along the way, she went to the back where the kitchen was situated. Upon entering, she had a plate of delicacies almost immediately and she sat down alone at the small table. 

She was shovelling the deliciously savoury meal into her mouth when her mother entered, giving her quite the start. Swallowing her mouthful, she daubed her mouth gently and straightened herself, acting the prim lady. Sorrowfully she gazed at the plate, having to take tiny bites now. Though it would help her with lingering over each forkful, it also wasn't satisfying enough.

"Delphia," Preia said, at the same time her daughter uttered:

"Mother." Both women paused and studied the other with unease. Preia sat at the table, a chair being pulled out for her immediately, and gestured to Delphia to continue.

Shaking slightly, she set her shoulders and gazed straight at her mother. "I want to take the Mark."

With some effort, Preia fought the smirk. Of course she did. Reaching out, she patted the back of one of Delphia's hands, giving her a somewhat indulgent look.

"The presence of the Dark Lord can be breathtaking," she said gently as she squeezed then withdrew her hand to fold it with the other in her lap, "but one cannot undertake such an endeavour without fully analyzing all the risks."

Delphia had never heard her mother's voice so soft. Perhaps once, in some dim, distant memory from when her father was alive, but nothing she could place a time or event on.

"So . . . so you don't _want_ me to take the Mark?" she managed to utter, feeling cold dread flow through her. Alright, plan one scrapped.

"Delphia," Preia sighed as she stood languidly, moving to the back of her daughter's chair and gripping her shoulders. "I understand what you felt that night, but you mustn't be _rash_. Give your job more time. You've barely been there two weeks. Perhaps you'll find yourself better there than here."

_You have no idea what I felt that night_, Delphia spat in her mind, wondering what the heck her mother was up to. She was acting downright bizarre. Maybe she was really worried that her youngest and only female was leaping before she looked. But the power He could grant, the things she could learn – she halted her thoughts when she realised it wasn't just the Dark Lord she was considering. Could her mother be right? Did she actually understand and was trying to sway her from choking on what she had bitten off? Was the maternal show an honest demonstration of Delphia's best interests?

Her next words were slow in coming, her thoughts still half-formed as she began the sentence. "Can I prove myself?" she wondered.

Preia's hands relaxed as a look of triumph flashed over her features. There it was. Delphia felt the change in her mother and realised a shade too late that she had been trapped. She had walked heedlessly into it, and deserved whatever she got in return.

"Prove yourself," Preia hissed, sitting back in the chair she had just vacated; she leant over, narrowing her eyes, "prove yourself by putting forth the manoeuvrings to get to Harry Potter. He's protected by many wizards at all times; we need an opening."

Delphia's face fell, and she was sure it shattered spectacularly on the floor. What had her mother asked of her? Unlike her earlier quip about dealing with Potter, she knew this was no joke to unsettle her. From the look in her mother's eyes, this was most deadly serious. Why would her mother set forth an impossible test? She had no influence; there was no way she could possibly hint at getting _rid_ of Potter, no matter the thorn he was for the Ministry.

Seeing Delphia's stunned, hopeless expression, Preia patted her cheek, snickering wickedly. "Your father would have had it done tomorrow before tea time."

_Please not let that have been a time limit,_ Delphia prayed to herself, wondering if whatever was up there could hear her.

"And I'm to receive no aid?" she breathed, hands now gripping the edge of the table, her arms visibly twitching. Her exhalations were heavy and she bent over, feeling nauseous. This was impossible. The continuing thoughts made her dizzy, the urge to vomit quelling up quite rapidly now.

"You have the ear of Umbridge," Preia murmured beside Delphia's face, almost prone on the table, "and she, the ear of the Minister." She had seen the slightly green tinge of her child's face, the trepidation. For all intents and purposes, this was still her baby girl, and it hurt Preia to see her so frightened of what would be, in the end, an easy task. If the girl couldn't handle this, then how could she ever dream of serving the Dark Lord?

"I'm nothing," Delphia mumbled, casting her gaze away from her mother. "I'm just her secretary." And how would that help? Other than Umbridge's loathing of the boy; that might just work to her favour, actually.

"And quite the good little one so I've heard." Preia's voice was a dangerously low hiss. If Delphia had turned to look at her mother, she would have been alarmed by the purely feral look on her face.

Sighing heavily, Delphia lifted her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "She likes the way I encourage her. How I agree mindlessly with the Ministry."

"An act you have cultivated well," her mother murmured soothingly, stroking Delphia's sleek brown hair. "Now you use it."

Raking her fingers sharply over her scalp, Delphia shook her head then her body with a growl. Baring her teeth, she stared down at the kitchen table, wondering still what she was to do. She could always back-track, forget about taking the Mark. If she didn't proceed with the test, it wouldn't matter. Crossing her legs as she finally gazed upon her mother, she could feel something shift against her thigh. The dagger. Her stomach clenched as she gulped in memory; she knew this was her only chance.

"I can promise nothing," she said glumly, twitching the corner of her mouth in a broken smile.

All Preia heard in that was her ascent. "Good. Don't make it too obvious darling." Smiling serenely at Delphia, she stood and left the kitchen, not seeing it when Delphia gripped at her own hair and tugged, bringing on the forlorn tears.

* * *

It took Delphia sitting in her bed, unable to sleep, for her to find inspiration to this unfeasible task. Her stomach was still roiling, her mind spinning and finally she had to get up and walk off some of her jitters. There was no way she could possibly do this. Was her mother so dead-set against her joining the Death Eaters that she would make sure it would never happen by handing her this horrific mission? Flopping back on her bed, she reached into her nightstand and yanked out her werewolf book. Letting out a heavy sigh, she turned the pages idly, wondering how one of them would have handled it. They wouldn't have worried, that was for sure. In all fact, they probably wouldn't have worried about getting to the boy. They would have just rent his throat to shreds. The mental image chippered her up somewhat and her eyes fell upon a well-read section. 

The artist's rendition was more readily understood now, having met Greyback personally. Though the image truly did him no physical favours, it did bring out his rough, raw edge. It reached down inside him and pulled out all that was contemptible and ghastly about him. She could see the embellishment in his sneer, knowing what it looked like in her face, realising now that the picture was rather well wrought. His eyes in the picture had at first seemed beady; now she knew they were merely narrowed. Groaning as she rolled over and sprawled out on the bed, she gazed blankly up at the canopy.

_I can teach you to kill, to really kill._

She believed him. But she couldn't learn, couldn't stand breathless in his presence again, until she had a skull and twisting serpent on her arm. It was unfair and next to impossible. The memory of how she felt before him, the wooziness like what she felt now, but so much sweeter; his earthly, untamed smell and the way his eyes swept over her like a precious, delectable piece of fresh meat. All these coalesced until she found herself gasping for air, her eyes staring widely.

Willing to do anything to be in his company again, she set her face determinedly. The glory of the Dark Lord had to be served. She would learn what she needed and enjoy what she felt; and do anything to attain it.

* * *

The next day found Delphia unrested and jumpy. She snapped at the house-elves when they didn't bring her breakfast quickly enough, and had actually managed to hex Kieran when he had accosted her for her attitude with such ferocity that he had ran off snivelling to their mother. Baby, she had scoffed, tucking her wand away, revelling in and gaining some confidence from the muted howls of laughter from her brothers, rooms away. 

When she left for work, she walked past the main parlour room and happened to glance inside. The doors were open and in the room was Preia soothing Kieran as she fixed him up back to normal. Their mother's eyes flickered to the doorway and she locked gazes with Delphia. She looked almost proud and definitely understanding. Delphia was coming into her own and it was about bloody time. Leaving the house with a skip in her step, even the crushing weight of the trial ahead was less daunting with the knowledge that she had done some nifty spellwork, impressing more than just herself. If she could do that on the fly, then couldn't she do anything? Other than the fact that it had been spite and frustration that had driven her to such a level. Breathing deep the dry summer morning, she couldn't stop the smile from touching her lips.

She would do this damn it. This intolerable test set before her was nothing, if she could just speak with Fenrir one more time. Her worth and loyalty would be proven and she would be free, finally free, to do as she wished. Once a Death Eater, who cared how she followed through with the Dark Lord's bidding? Her mother had plans for her, that was true; she wasn't so stupid as to not see the plotting in deep recesses of her eyes. Who said though, that she couldn't do her duty and have some fun on the side? Cast fear into the hearts of the unbelievers, the unfaithful. He would teach her to kill, to really kill, to better serve the Dark Lord. To serve Him in a way she would find most enjoyable.

There was nothing in the world that would satisfy her more.

* * *

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I've been trying to post this for days and it only finally stopped giving me an error page. Anyhoo, there you go! There will be more Fen-Del in a few chapters. Sorry about the wait, but it should be worth it ;) ((Wink wink, nudge nudge, a nod's as good as a wink, gov'ner)) Thank you to everyone who reviews and even to those who don't; without you guys, I wouldn't be posting this. Just writing it XP 

BL


	10. Chapter IX: An Undefined Torture

Chapter IX: An Undefined Torture

The restlessness in him grew. Before he had been fidgety. Now he couldn't even sit down without twitching uncontrollably. He hadn't felt this way since his first hunt, if it had even been this bad. It had been such a long time ago that he wasn't too clear on the exact details of how he had felt. All he could remember was the sensuous ripping of creamy flesh, tearing like damp threadbare cloth and the crimson burst as it flooded his mouth.

Ah, in these reposes he could almost calm down. Almost; that was the problem. Even hunting and killing were quelling his pounding chest and the ceaseless tingling for only short amounts of time. His pack had started to take notice of his endless turmoil, his boundless energy. Once again he tore out of the den and into the woods, careening through the trees until he finally snagged himself on a rock and went sprawling into the moist, dark dirt. He lay there for a moment, finally feeling calm wash over him. Pain thudded in his shin and he felt warmth itching down his leg. Perhaps now he could rest, allow his eyes to close. Fenrir tried it and realised that when he did, the anxiousness didn't swell in him, hadn't eaten him whole yet.

Too bad his only relief from the agony inside was to create pain on the outside. As much as he enjoyed screams and anguish, he wasn't fond of having them turned on himself. There was no way he would wound his body just to cease the clamouring that rose constantly within him. No, he wouldn't give the enemy that pleasure of watching him self-destruct. Instead he could throw himself more completely into killing and mayhem: if the damned Dark Lord lengthened his leash! How could he ease his mind if his only avenue of relief was forbidden at the moment? He had no recourse, no other way of settling himself.

For a long while he just lay there, inhaling the fragrance of the soil, the sweetness of new life and fresh decay surrounding him. He knew he looked a right mess, but there was a stream near-by; he could scrub down there. No reason why he had to go back to his pack bleeding and dirt-smeared, never mind reeking of apprehension. He could smell the shift in the night, the dusky musk wafting about him. Groaning as he screwed his eyes shut, he forbade himself to linger on the images, the memories of scents imbedded in his head. She had smelt different from the twilight of the earth, but the underlying scent was torturously similar. That pure smell of a ready bitch, but with the tangy pang of fear cutting through her want. It had been enticing and so strange. He had never come across anyone, especially a whelp of a girl, who could stand so bravely before him and demand to be taught in his blood-letting ways. Even when he had frightened her and threw away her wand, leaving her defenceless before him, she still held her ground. She had cowered and been full of fright, but she hadn't turned tail. It was a curiosity he couldn't get his mind over, a need his body told him to grab onto.

What was this girl who could wind a spell more thoroughly with her unacknowledged lust than with a wand? And who the hell was he to react to the foolish child?

She interested him as a novelty; that was all. Even as he told himself that, however, he knew the torture wouldn't end. So caught up in his mind, he had barely registered the padding of one of his fellows; hardly scented her on the dry breeze. Turning over as Aneya approached him almost silently, she shook her head disparagingly at him. He growled in challenge but she gave him a look, the look all women had that could silence even the greatest of men.

Staring up through the tree branches, Fenrir could just make out the moon. What did she want? For once his thoughts towards her were weak, his admiration waning as surely as she did every few weeks. He wanted to know why she was doing this to him and why he felt the way he did.

"You great rutting beast," Aneya snarled as she stepped up to her Alpha, quailing him under her glower. He ducked his head slightly even as he wondered what she meant. Every woman, he decided in that moment, was completely insane.

Nudging his thigh with her toes, she studied him. "If you were female, you would have been bleeding for weeks now." At his somewhat aghast stare, she began laughing, it a shrill sound. Birds fluttered overhead, shooting off from the trees as the laughter echoed through the wood.

Dragging air into her lungs, she brushed the tears aside and smirked. "You really have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" she wondered, hunkering down beside him as he sat up and examined his leg.

Glancing over at her, he gave a low rumbling from his chest to let her know to cease this insubordination. While he might accept more from her, he had limits, especially of late. Prodding the gash in his shin, he winced and applied pressure to staunch the blood flow. Aneya shook her head, almost sadly this time, and patted his shoulder.

"You're a fool," she finally sighed, squeezing companionably. "We love you and respect you, but sometimes, you're too stupid for your own good."

This was really going too far. Fenrir barked in her face angrily, snarling as he bared his pointed teeth. His eyes narrowed as he moved dominantly over Aneya, who shirked back and turned her face away from him even as she exposed her throat.

"This is what I mean, Alpha," she said with her eyes closed. "You're too on edge. You start at every sound and find insult in every honest word. I try telling you what's wrong and you become angry."

"You're the fool," he rasped, nipping her throat before he sat back, studying her. The urge to take her as she had lain under him had been almost too much to deny, but as quickly as the urge had washed over him, it had disappeared. He wouldn't do that to any of his pack and after silent retrospect, realised he didn't want to. As his eyes took in her hardened, muscled form, completely naked before him, he felt nothing except what had already been there.

He needed something, he realised, his face becoming almost serenely thoughtful. Someone rather, pinned beneath him as he wore out his urgent, frantic need. Clutching at his toned belly then hanging his head as he doubled over, Fenrir shut his eyes. A moment later, he felt the gentle hand of his elder, his Beta, upon his back, hushing him.

"You have been restless, my Alpha," she commented softly, lifting his face so she could look at him. "We all realise it. But we also realise that you have become worse and worse, especially when you went to meet with the Dark Lord."

What was the little wench's name? He had never even managed to get that out of her, before and after handing over his prized possession. It had been his since he had been a normal wizard and he had had it on him when he had been attacked. At first he had needed it for his kills; with time, his reliance on it had dwindled. But he couldn't part with it. In a night, he had given it away. And he didn't truly know who she was. All he knew was that she had to be completely _daft_ to have spoken to him as she did and to have quivered so lusciously under his gaze.

Seeing the flickering bewilderment and anger pass over his face, Aneya just smiled in a smug manner. Deftly getting to her feet, she gave him one last look, then was off into the trees, running back home. Alone once again, Fenrir collapsed back onto the firm, mossy forest floor and stared upwards. Tucking his hands behind his head, he shifted slightly, getting more comfortable. His whole pack knew something was wrong. From what Aneya insinuated, they most likely knew exactly what it was. So why the hell didn't he know?

What did it matter? Out here on his lonesome, without anyone to bother him or to refresh his mind with tantalising torments, he could indulge. It wouldn't hurt the girl, she would never know the churning she had set in on him. The thought gave him pause. He had promised to teach her, solidifying it by handing her substitute claws and fangs until she had her very own. So she would know, eventually, wouldn't she?

But she was so young, so small and seemingly frail. If he touched her she would break; if he went near her again she would this time know to run in fear. He didn't have much choice though. She had been the one eager for tutelage. From what he had smelled on her, she wanted to learn much more than how to kill. Did she even know that of herself? Or was she so coddled and pampered that she knew nothing of her baser urges?

Dragging himself up with a groan, Fenrir padded silently off to the babbling stream deeper in the trees. Pushing aside branches as he followed the smell and sound of water, ignoring one as it whipped across his face, he came to the river bank. Just seeing it was relief in itself. Jumping in the waist-high water, he rinsed off dirt and bits of stray leaves, watching his blood flow away from him, threading through the water until it faded. When moderately presentable, he crawled out of the water and lazed on the bank, cradled in fragrant flowers and grasses. Allowing himself to dry, he curled up, gazing off at nothing. This was unfair. He had done everything for her, that glistening orb that commanded his blood. Yet she still thought it apt to torture him with this unknown feeling, these urges he couldn't understand. Restlessness creeping into his mind, Fenrir somehow managed to nod off. Exhaustion had, finally, suffused him.

* * *

Aneya returned to the pack, looking somewhat sullen as she passed wrestling pups and the older young who were chatting aimlessly. She plopped herself down on the couch that was always taken up by the elders and gave them a shrug along with a sigh.

"He told you nothing?" one of the males growled, his brows shooting up in shock. "It's rare he keeps anything from you."

Grunting in reply, she allowed her stare to sweep the room. Everything seemed in order, nothing was different from any other night. Except that their Alpha was out in the woods somewhere, being plagued by something she understood, yet couldn't quite grasp. He should have been there, with his pack, romping with the young ones, teaching them what they needed to know. Instructing them all on their place within their society and what he was doing to claim their rightful place of power.

"What _is_ wrong with him?" came the soft gravely voice of a rather dishevelled, worn-out looking woman at the end of the couch. Aneya just looked at her and pursed her lips, shaking her head woefully. The other woman studied her for a moment; then her eyes lit up in realisation, a sadness flickering across her features.

"Poor Alpha," she murmured, hugging her knees to her chest, one of the few who still chose to wear her ragged robes rather than gallivant around naked. She had been a well-bred woman once, and couldn't rid herself of the distaste of going around nude. While she accepted it in the others who chose that way, she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Fenrir had tolerated that after many nights of trying to change her ways. It seemed the more he insisted and the more he beat her for being a slave to the wizards, the more _she_ insisted on being stubborn and having her wish. Finally he had given up, finding some humour in the situation, and allowed her eccentricity. It didn't harm the pack, after all, and he could appreciate how deep-rooted the rules of wizards were when trying to control their own.

The males looked to each other, absolutely bewildered. What was it with women?

"He won't ever find what he needs," the somewhat clothed werewolf sighed, pitying their poor leader.

"Jeddie?" Aneya said tentatively, eyeing her.

"Hm?"

"The problem is . . . I think he already has."

That revelation of the night had the males barking and growling their insistence on knowing exactly what was going on, while both women kept their mouths firmly shut. It wasn't their place to say what they instinctively knew, though Jeddie kept glancing at Aneya, wanting further clarification. It made sense, with how he was acting after being with so many people, that he could have found the cure to his agitation. It was impossible to get her to talk freely though, as there were others in the room. Both resigned themselves to speaking in private, wondering when such a time would come. The health of their Alpha was the foremost important thing to the pack, and it was their job to do what they could. How they could go about it, they had no idea.

* * *

Rejoining his pack an hour or so before dawn, Fenrir looked drawn as he stumbled sleepily into the house. Nearly everyone was sleeping with daybreak coming soon, and so he didn't bother with any of his pack, not even to inform them he was home. Instead, he wandered slowly up to his room and shut the door, flinging himself onto his bed like some sullen brat. But it was a sullen brat who had him worked up now, wasn't it? It was her fault for making his insides twist and his chest ache with the need to . . . His eyes went wide even as his body begged for more sleep.

No, the moon wouldn't have done this to him. She was their protector, the guide in their lives. He had refused for so long so why did she choose the time to be now, why did she make the instinct so strong his whole body shook?

Why did he have to speak to the whelp? It would have been easy to have just walked away, never allowing her to know he was there. At the time, however, she hadn't been a threat to his sanity. Knowing what he did now, he would have stayed silent. But he hadn't. He had to deal with things, somehow. Perhaps it was just the memory keeping him going. When he saw her again, he would realise this was nothing; that his interest in her had been merely from her strange reactions, her lack of dread. Her demands for knowledge and the appreciation of the way his kind, the way he, killed.

Of course, that was it. He snorted to himself as he rolled over on the rickety bed, realising the simple answer to all his woes. Everything about that night was trumped up from his constant mulling, the curiosity. Not because she was actually anything special or that he wanted anything from her. Next time he saw her, there would be no problems.

* * *

The next day the pack was outside sparring. Fenrir was overseeing the fights, pointing out weaknesses and the best way to prolong bleeding and death or to instigate immediate demise. It all depended on the reason for the attack. The wiry youths clawed and leapt at each other as they tried out their attacks and alternately spoke amongst themselves, referring to different points on the body in discussion over why they did certain things where. A bite to the thigh, a puncture to the ribcage. All was spoken of most seriously, allowing Fenrir some rest. With them all dealing with themselves, he didn't need to be in the tussle as much as usual. And, thankfully, if anything was needed, he had his elders to intervene.

He was still fidgety, but had done a good job in convincing himself why and how best to ignore it. Relief was almost his; now he was telling himself he was back to how he was before the whelp. A little nagging voice in the back of his head told him he was just lying to himself, but that wasn't very comforting so he squashed it as best he could. He had to be right, or he'd go mad.

Ignoring the others and the glances shot briefly his way, Fenrir went and sat in the old, weed-ridden flowerbed. It was shaded there, soft and almost comforting. He could watch everyone and not have to partake. Of course he still had to be around, but he didn't really have to be there. This was a right he had earned through the years; to just observe his pack. There wasn't much to do anyhow. As his elders looked to him one by one, he turned his face away with a slight snarl. Who were they to wonder, to scold? This agony was nothing they had been through before. Gazing defiantly out at the grouping, he smirked to himself as each of his elders ducked their heads as they glanced away. Good. They had to know that even with this rumbling inside him, this body wrenching unease, he was still their leader. He could still best them even in his most weakened state. If they wished to challenge him for supremacy, they could; and they would be once again reminded why _he was Alpha_.

Self-assured and feeling surprisingly calm, he relaxed, leaning back against the house front, draping his arms over his knees as he pulled them up. This was where he belonged. This was his life. And all thoughts of some young Pure-blood writhing under his glower shoved peacefully, for now, under the wash of confidence.

* * *

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Fast update, I know, but I figured no one was reviewing, so meh, here's some more nn Hope you enjoyed; yay Fenrir! Wooo! Please review? Reviews make me happy; and they make Fenrir happy too, because he wants to play with Delphia more, but he can't until I write it oO

BL


	11. Chapter X: The Impossible With Ease

Chapter X: The Impossible With Ease

The rest of the weekend was horrific with agitation. The Sonder mansion was quiet and composed for the first time in almost three decades. None of the males dared do anything but toe the line; move an inch out of the realm of permission and the punishments were harsher than ever. And half of it was dealt out by little sister. For once in their lives, the men in the family were tiptoeing around, afraid of Delphia's wrath, rather than it being the other way around. The set of her eyes, the thin line of her mouth of late was disconcerting, especially with how much it resembled mother. They had found out fast that she wouldn't be trifled with and that her long-lasting patience had, at last, come to an end.

Most of the time Delphia was lost in her mind, deep in thought. The urge to speak with Fenrir and the clenching of her chest were mere background to the issues facing her. She had no more tolerance for the foolhardy games of her siblings. Not right now; perhaps, when this unattainable task was dealt with, she would return to normal. As of the present, however, she was a tempest. Everything about her was frayed, from her emotions to her mind; her nerves were completely shot and she found herself leaping at random shadows, ready to tear into whoever might be there, teeth bared.

Thankfully, her brothers learned fast when it came to pain. They would give her the space she needed to deal with what was on her mind. Especially after a stern lecture from their mother. They weren't little boys anymore, and had to respect the fact that she was earning her way into the ranks they had so easily jumped within. If they crossed her, Preia pressed, she would not stop Delphia from taking out her rage. Her eyes had gone to Makrin, who had taken the brunt of Delphia's ire. His arm was still smarting, though the large gash she had left was healing nicely. Even, Preia had stressed, scowling at him, if her rage took the form of a knife rather than a wand.

Though, she did switch between the two. Still, the weight of a blade, the comfort knowing it had belonged to someone so powerful, someone who would teach her his art, called to her more than her wand did. It was as if the Dark Lord Himself had handed her His wand, scoffing as He waved her off, saying He "just didn't need it anymore". Her admiration was that deep, her reverence reaching even further. There was nothing she wouldn't do to get what was hers, what she felt she was owed. What she had earned through her life and by the simple fact of her birth.

She also knew she had to act fast. As the weekend came to a close, she was restless and tense, the sight of her sitting in a chair, clutching the armrests with white knuckles as she ground her teeth not uncommon. Her eyes were constantly focused on some unseen point, so lost in her mind she could no longer see her surroundings. This was awful, what she had to do. If those in the Dark Lord's service couldn't find a way, how was she, a teenager out of Hogwarts with a minor secretarial job in the Ministry, supposed to trump them all? Her mother had better have done some quick thinking to get her out of this one, because Delphia could see no freaking window, let alone a door. Giving up wasn't even an option. It wasn't the Sonder way. She would fret and gnash and brutalise until the solution came, or she died from the stress.

Food . . . food? Her stomach growled loudly, ripping her from her deliberations. She was of half a mind to tear the damned thing from her body, her eyes wild and unfocused. Eye twitching slightly, she realised the stupidity of her thoughts and threw her head back against the chair with a laugh. Then she kept laughing and couldn't stop, until she was balled up and nearly falling over. Coming to, she wiped her eyes and stood. She had needed that break in her mind. It brought her back to reality. Going to the kitchen, she fed herself as she thought, wondering how she could approach Umbridge about Potter.

Her mother had mentioned the toad Delphia worked for, saying influencing her was as good as influencing the Minister himself. But why? How the hell could officials weave their way through the defences surrounding the boy when, at the moment, it seemed they loathed him just as much as the Dark Lord did? They had power, she told herself as she frowned, plopping down into one of the simple, wooden kitchen chairs. Thinking about all the papers she had been writing out mindlessly, she realised that the Ministry had power, true, but more importantly, they saw _all_. Any illegal or shady use of magic was documented and passed onto the proper authorities. Oft times it was hell to prove it directly, but that wasn't her job, was it? That didn't matter. The only point was that with power, and knowledge, they had the ability to do anything they wanted.

Reaching for an apple and munching slowly on it, Delphia's eyes narrowed, deep in thought. Quite the monopoly they had, the little dictatorship, wasn't it? Really, they weren't so different from the Dark Lord; perhaps He would even have a ministry of His own, ruling the wizarding populous in that way. As her mind began drifting comfortingly, she screwed up her eyes and shook her head roughly. No, she had to stay on track, she was so close, she could feel it. It was right there, tantalising in its closeness, so near she could brush it with her outstretched fingertips. Her body followed her mind and with her eyes closed, enacted the scene, forcing her body to relay physically so she could better comprehend mentally.

At that moment, Jaeger was entering the kitchen for a snack. Seeing his sister this way was disconcerting, but he knew better than to interrupt her. Edging around her outstretched hand, he headed to the icebox, flickering his glance at her every so often. Making his way carefully back out, his eyes still on her, watching her with her face all tight and her arm hovering in the air, fingers clawing at something he couldn't see, he pitied her. The poor kid was being put through the wringer, and for what? So she could prove that she deserved the Mark, when she shouldn't have to?

He left the room and Delphia never even had the inkling he was there. In fact, she wasn't really in the kitchen herself. She was in the office, scanning through the mounds of parchment she herself had written. Knowledge and power, knowledge and power: it kept repeating itself. She made it her mantra, hoping it would keep her on track. That was her crux, she knew it. But how to exploit it? Knowing the law, and what happened through their world was one thing, and having the power over everyone's actions was quite another. To combine them . . . she'd need a breach in regulation. Something . . . something that would trigger the knowledge. That would instigate the immediate response of power. Yes, _yes!_ She was finally getting somewhere.

Her arm ached and she cracked open a brown eye to see it reaching into nothingness. Feeling like a fool and glad no one had seen her in such a state, she lowered her limb into her lap, nursing the hurt that had started in her muscles. What now? She had to set off the motions, get everything rolling. That's all her mother had asked. To start that though, she had to see the end, didn't she? Or, did she just have to know the general idea of how things would end up?

Get Potter into trouble. That's the only way she could do it, with the resources available. Flush him out like prey. She paused, thinking back. Perhaps werewolves did have ways of dealing with situations other than merely killing the opposition. Yes, she would be like a wolf on the hunt. If she couldn't _find_ an opening to Potter, she would _create_ one.

How? How, how, _how?!_ Ready to beat her forehead on the table in frustration, she screwed up her face again in a snarl. Flush him out; but she was just a youngling. A whelp she thought, the sound of the word coming to her mind in his voice, giving her a slight shiver. It wouldn't be her job to flush him out, no, it couldn't be. Reminding herself that he duty was just to create the opportunity, she realised it didn't have to come to fruition. Nor did she have to take part in any of it; she just had to set the idea in the minds of those above her. This was still a problem: she had no voice. She was nothing, a low-sector worker, below the radar of the ones who mattered, those who made the decisions.

The realisation hit her as a searing jab in her back, her spine tensing as an animal ready to spring. That was her _advantage._ She wasn't sure how, but she was sure that she could make it so. Anything said by her would be unimportant and fluffed aside, but it would still take root in the backs of the minds of others. Those who would remember and act, without quite knowing where this idea came from, thinking it was theirs all along.

If she could just say something to Umbridge to get her to act rashly, make her so enraged about Harry Potter that she felt she had no recourse but to take action . . . Create the opportunity for him to do something that would lock itself into knowledge. Then power would take over and flush him out. That would be an opening to him, create a gap, even briefly, to seize their moment.

It was complex, winding and twisted; the sort of thinking that did her mother proud. But on the execution, was it feasible? Could she really do anything to harm the boy if he was constantly protected? That was the variable, wasn't it? What if there was no opening, and they had to deal with what was there? Even if everything followed through as it should, the wizard on Potter's tail would be there to help, lend hand, and even lend witness.

But Umbridge held knowledge. Wouldn't she know of even a moment's weakness? A time to strike and get to him, through the defence, flush him out when he realised it was too late? Her mind was truly wandering now, her face jumping from expression to expression, elated to moody, thoughtful to enraged. Again, she told herself, she just had to get it moving. Let the others do the rest. Insinuate something, plant the seeds; and then let the ideas grow.

All through the night Delphia was restless, tossing and turning in her sprawling bed. She couldn't completely drift off to sleep, nor was she awake; instead, some uncomfortable in-between, her thoughts still racing, her brain demanding repose. She had dreams, but not true dreams, more images floating through her mind. Dark figures descended on the boy with Umbridge perched on a throne, overseeing the proceedings. Then he was running as Delphia herself cut him down, awash with crimson; she could see her face clearly, oozing with tendrils of clotted blood against her pale features. She realised with a start, nearly awaking herself completely, that her face wasn't pale: she was wearing a mask. Her arm was burning and she let out a little shriek into the darkness. Her world crashed down on her, she was drowning in decaying flesh. Every breath was filled with putrefaction, the pressure building until she was trying to fight her way through. It was impossible and she was sinking beneath them, caught under their sickly-sweet weight, carried adrift in the softness of their mouldering. Now screaming as she heard a squeaking below her, watched as the dead grin of a child spoke, she bolted up in bed, eyes wide, hair mussed about her head. Staring down at the side of the bed as she breathed heavily, looking about to murder something, she realised it had been a house-elf talking to her.

"Miss must get up now," she nearly cried, wringing her hands. "Miss is being late soon."

Still gasping for air, Delphia clutched her chest and shuddered. If she never relived that, it would be too soon. She had the feeling, however, that this was just the beginning of her worries. An uninitiated soon-to-be Death Eater faced with this sort of monumentous task? What awaited her once within the ranks her family belonged to? Did she even wish to know, to dwell upon it? For now the dream was welling back up inside her, until the smell of rot was hinting itself in her nostrils. Throwing herself from her bed, Delphia dressed for work and tromped downstairs, demanding her bag from an attendant elf. Munching on her quick breakfast of dried fruit and sweet oats, she shook her head slowly, wanting to free her mind and body from the remnants of the night. What a way to start her week.

* * *

Appearing at the Apparation point inside the Ministry as she did every day, Delphia nodded to those in attendance and they gave her polite smiles of recognition as she continued to her office. Entering an elevator, then exiting on the correct floor (having to bat a few annoying memos to the side), she walked inside the office to find Katrine already there. She had a mug of tea in her hands and was gazing intently at the wall. Standing beside her, Delphia parked herself on the edge of the desk and stared with the other girl, until finally Katrine turned her head, sipping at her tea in wonder.

"Who's more foolish?" she asked with a tired, teasing voice, "the fool, or the fool who follows her?"

Snickering, Delphia hopped off Katrine's desk and went to her own, pulling a quill out of her drawer. "You look how I feel." For some reason, the words she uttered sounded almost familiar.

Grunting with a shrug, Katrine sat in her chair and leaned back, propping her feet up on the desk, continuing to drink her liquid breakfast. "I just don't want to be in today."

Setting her quill down primly, Delphia gave her a serious stare. "We could go on strike."

"Oh? What's our platform?" Katrine sounded almost as deadly serious, the slight twitching of the corners of her mouth betraying her true thoughts.

Lifting her shoulders, Delphia looked nonplussed. "Down with Umbridge?"

Laughing outright now, Katrine shot a smirk in her direction. "Somehow, I don't think that'd go over well." Both girls started laughing now, finding this hilarious in their hazed-over early morning minds.

"Alright, alright," Delphia finally snorted, "work time." Looking consolingly at Katrine when she groaned unhappily, Delphia picked her quill back up and studied her desk. The usual paperwork to be sorted and filed. A couple parchments were stacked up to be rewritten in her concise printing, but other than that, nothing much. Thankfully today would be an easy shift, seeing as she still needed time to consider what had to be done. Hopefully they would have the chance to see Dolores that day and each receive a grace period in which to speak with her. As the day droned on, Delphia realised that was not to be. Stifling her groan at the situation, she picked up a discarded copy of _The Daily Prophet_ and read, finished next to everything on her desk. She couldn't get in trouble for staying on top of daily events. Flipping the front page over and taking a peek, she rolled her eyes. Nearly daily. Returning to reading, her mind started to churn as she scanned over the inside pages. Subconsciously her brain began putting things together as Potter's name was smeared all over the news. Now she had to piece everything together and somehow, in some way, make it succeed.

Thankfully, the next day, as Delphia entered the office more world-weary than ever, she stared at an empty room. Katrine wasn't there and she heaved a sigh, not knowing if that was good or bad. One less person to see her in this state, but one less person to cheer her up. Turning about to just go for a walk before the day started, she halted for a moment, wondering who the hell the third desk in the office was for. Shrugging it off, she figured it was for someone in the night-shift or something. If they had a night shift. Damn it, what did it matter? She was obviously trying to remove herself from the situation, to deny what she had to do. Though it calmed her somewhat to have something else to consider, it didn't help with the job at hand. Yes, a walk would do her good.

Stepping out into the puerile, sickening halls, Delphia strode aimlessly, needing to work off her anxiety somehow. Catching glimpse of a large figure entering an office, Delphia realised _this was her chance. _It was early and no one was really here, so . . . Running to the office, she crept through the door where the receptionist usually sat. He wasn't there either. Breathing deep and forcing her muscles to relax (for she discovered she had become quite tense) she steadied herself and went over to Umbridge just before the door in the back shut. Sticking her foot in to keep it open and wincing as it hit her foot, squeezing it against the doorframe, she cleared her throat politely.

Umbridge turned around and glowered at her; when she better saw who it was, her face went saccharine and she smiled.

"Mrs Umbridge," Delphia gasped quickly, pushing the door open so she could step inside, "I've been . . ." she trailed off carefully, pretending to mull this disquiet over. "Well, I'm worried, really."

As she had hoped, Umbridges eyes narrowed as she took on a suspicious glower. "Worried? And what would you be worried about, dear?"

Putting her hand to her throat with a gasp, she let out a laugh. "Oh Mrs Umbridge, don't frighten me like that! It's just," here she lowered her voice and leaned in conspiringly, "I've been reading the paper."

Dolores's brows went up, looking a tad more curious now. "Yes, Delphia?"

"And well, all this talk with Potter is getting out of hand, isn't it?" Putting on a nervous show, she eyed the other woman. "I mean, I think we need to do something about it. _Really_ do something."

Face returning to its sickening smile, Umbridge motioned Delphia into the room and shut the door behind her. Gesturing to a chair by her desk, the toad woman rounded the desk and sat in her own, very large, chair.

Sitting gingerly in the seat proffered to her, Delphia crossed her ankles and kept her hands in her lap, seeming a proper, well-bred lady. With what she knew of the way Umbridge thought, it would only help her to relay her blood and position in such subtle manners.

"You were saying, Delphia?" she crooned, passing over a bowl filled with chocolates. The girl declined with much thanks, looking overcome with Umbridge's kindness. Dolores seemed happy with this and took a chocolate for herself, putting the bowl away. Pleasantries now aside, they could get down to some serious talk.

"I know I haven't been here long," Delphia began, carefully choosing her words, "but I've tried to do well and done the best I could in all things." Smiling sweetly at Umbridge's nod of approval, she bowed her head slightly in thanks. "And, well, I also can't help but feel affected by everything that's going on, working in the Ministry as I do, even at such a low level. I mean, we're all a part of a whole, aren't we?"

Mulling this over with another chocolate, Dolores nodded again. "You're quite right Delphia. Quite right."

Another smile. "And after reading the paper over the past few weeks," _past couple days_, "I'm starting to become uneasy. Not because of the lies Potter has been spouting, or the way we deal with them – and in fact, we have been refuting him marvellously, if I may state my opinion."

Giving her a little wave of her pudgy hand, Umbridge merely nodded. "You may, Delphia."

"Thank you for being so kind and giving me the time to speak with you," Delphia added in a rush, absolutely mooning up at her, clutching her hands to her chest now, "and I know I'm rambling and wasting your time, it's just . . . not the fact that we deal with Potter, but the fact that we have to."

Now the little toad's face was absolutely probing, a slight frown turning her mouth. "What are you saying Delphia?"

She glanced away, only partially having to fake her nervousness. "Well, we're the Ministry, aren't we? We're the government. We know what is best for the people, right?"

Here Dolores nodded, her expression becoming more of its usual vapid serenity.

"Potter," she articulated carefully, trying not to furrow her brow and look as if she was reciting from memory, "did wonders for our world in the past. He vanquished the Da – You-Know-Who," she quickly covered, nearly stumbling with her own rhetoric. "Which was quite a feat, especially for an infant. We owe him a great debt of gratitude." Her eyes darkened somewhat as she leant in, licking her upper lip slowly. "But sometimes, heroes want more limelight than they're granted, don't they?"

Nodding vehemently to this, all her chins quivering, Dolores began to look enraptured.

"Instead of bowing out gracefully as he should have done, Mr Potter has decided to fervidly lie since his entrance into Hogwarts, and create more renown for himself. We thank him, but . . . its time that he be on his way now."

Surprisingly shrewd eyes took Delphia in, and she panicked a moment, wondering if she had just, not only over stepped her bounds, but misjudged Umbridge and what she could expect from her. Oh Merlin, she should have taken more time. This would be a lesson for the future, that no matter what one wanted, one couldn't get it if every piece on the chessboard wasn't just so.

"And all this worries you why, Delphia?" Umbridge wondered in an almost too soft tone.

Preventing herself from shifting uneasily, she stared Dolores in the eye. "Because my family is worried. Our friends, I'm sure you know them as many work in the Ministry – in fact, Lucius –" she gasped, blushing furiously clasping her hand to her mouth. Dropping it as she controlled herself, she continued: "I apologise for my rudeness. _Mr Malfoy_, got me this job. Anyhow, as a grown woman I'm now invited to the tête-à-têtes our families throw. I've heard much worry over Potter trying to relive his glory and how it is starting to tear apart our world, where the original act united us all."

"It's natural you would worry," Umbridge murmured as she reached out consolingly, having been put in her place. "And it is refreshing to see someone so young interested in politics and wanting to play a part, no matter how small, in our world."

Eesh, that one sort of stung. It was her turn to be put down a peg, but she nodded resolutely. "Thank you, Mrs Umbridge. I know I shouldn't really say anything, and that I have no place to, its just that I thought my voice should be heard on the matter, as I'm not the only one who thinks this way. Something more than informing people in _The Daily Prophet_ must be done." She sighed wearily. "I only wish I could think of a way to take care of things."

Smiling so pleasantly now Delphia thought she would be sick to her stomach by the sight, or at least get a severe tooth-ache, Dolores reached out for her hand, which she gave over. The feel of the woman stroking her skin comfortingly left her feeling dirty and foul. Instead of allowing any of this to show, she equalled her boss's smile and politely made her leave.

There, she had given the idea, put it in her head. Something had to be done. The knowledge would come. Then the power. And then . . . She would be Marked.

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Wow! Thanks for the great reviews guys . They made me so happeh! Hope you enjoyed the chapter; I know, I know, plot chapter, BORING, but still . . . It had Umbridge and we all hate her, so it should have been interesting, at least o.O And ooohhhhhhh, just you guys wait for the next chapter. Fenrir's tugging at his leash and it's becoming frayed -- it just might break by the end of the week XP

Review? Bitte?

BL


	12. Chapter XI: Skulls, Snakes and Teachers

Chapter XI: Skulls, Snakes and Teachers

Home life had at last returned to some semblance of normalcy. The three men no longer ducked and covered or cowered in fear whenever their sister or mother strolled by. Kieran even managed to jinx Delphia without having his eyes gouged out, a very good sign. Laughing in relief even as he fixed his sister up, Jaeger was just glad that she wasn't stalking the halls out for blood. Though he was still worried by her expression. She seemed blank, drawn inward, as if she was almost floating along without comprehending a thing.

As it was, Delphia was indeed floating around. Without the weight of what she had had to do on her mind, she felt strangely empty. Worried as well, wondering what would happen, how it was going to work. If anything would happen. What if Umbridge just decided to watch her more closely, as her words and the conversation had worried the woman? Or would Umbridge strike, taking Delphia up on the offer? It was confusing, and somewhat scary to leave so much in the hands of another. She had no other options, unless she wanted to take the formidable boy on herself. That was something she would have to save for later, much later. Besides, many a Death Eater was vying for the privilege of offing the boy, to become His favourite. She highly doubted she'd even get a scrap of what was left.

She rested more easily now, her nightmares fading into barely remembered awakenings in the night. Paranoia and stress still ran through her, but not nearly as much as they did before that fateful day. Now there was nothing to do but wait and watch, perhaps wonder a bit. In an attempt to make herself feel better, and to keep her mother happy if she happened to fail in her mission, Delphia set herself to better learning Dark Arts, and practised duelling in her sitting room where no one but the house-elves could bother her. It also aided in keeping her mind off what was gnawing at her. The likelihood that she had blown it.

Preia kept a close eye on her daughter. The girl had been acting rather strangely of late, but no wonder, seeing what she had been up against. It worried Preia to see Delphia first being so sullen and cruel, then almost mindless as she wandered about the house or to and from work, as if she couldn't see a thing. Half of the time she expected to see her walking about on her tiptoes, her expression so vacant that she wondered if anything was left inside.

She had also heard (personally) about how Delphia had invoked Lucius's name to add credence to her story. Thankfully Lucius had the mind to play along when Dolores went to him, but a day later, Preia had had quite the little visit. She had reminded him that he would have done no different and that he should have felt honoured and proud. It was _he_ Delphia had made her resource, the one to make her words credible. She had manipulated the woman with blood line, posturing and the throwing of powerful names. How could the child be blamed for playing the game so properly?

In the end, he had agreed, yet not completely happy with the youngest Sonder. Her first impression was still lingering, though the past couple weeks had been steadily eroding his notions. He had left the home somewhat more content than he had been entering it. Preia was glad for the interruption to her anxiety over Delphia, but it came back the next time she saw the girl. What was wrong with her damned child? If every time she had to do something like this and she reacted in this way, perhaps she just couldn't do the job she was expected to. It frightened Preia to consider that her daughter might not be capable of all that was schemed for her.

She was still a girl, Preia had to remind herself. Given time, she would grow up and know her place. That was what she was missing, that was what she needed. To know, to understand what she was, what she had to do. Right now she truly was wandering around aimlessly, the sense embodied in her every movement. For this Preia was sorry; but the Mark would have to wait until the next calling. Even if Delphia had failed, the matriarch decided as she settled into her favourite chair in the private parlour, she would still be honoured. To have plotted and actually carried through with her plan showed much strength and cunning. She just needed more time and guidance to learn to be successful.

How successful she actually was came a few days later, to the shock of all. It couldn't be proven, by any means, that Delphia had any influence on the events that took place in Little Whinging but to Preia's sharp mind, it was a tad co-incidental. From what she had managed to pry from her daughter she knew she had made the motions to be rid of Potter, to "flush him out" Delphia had said blandly as she sank into the couch across from her mother. It was impossible, the girl informed her, to just find a weakness, an opening in his protection. She wanted to create one.

Seemingly, both had happened. No one quite knew what went on or what had transpired, but Harry Potter was in very deep trouble for using magic, under aged, in front of a Muggle. The rumours of Dementors had sprung up, from whence no one knew that either. Still, it was convenient, and again, co-incidental.

Perhaps Delphia had set forth the motions; perhaps she hadn't. It didn't matter. Preia was satisfied that her child had done what she could (and, she believed personally but would voice to no one) actually did have influence on the events that had followed. Explaining this to Delphia who nodded her head glumly, hearing only half of what her mother was saying Preia watched as a spark seemed to light up in her face.

Her mother believed in her. Eyes shooting up to meet Preia's pale ones, a smile tugging at her mouth, life was showing in her features. She had done well, her mother said so. It had to be so. How could something like this happen without her having influence? It was too strange, too inexplicable to just let pass by. Going to her daughter and reaching out to her, Preia stroked her smooth hair, letting her know silently that she knew. And she was pleased.

* * *

Days after the "Dementor attack", Preia hosted another party at her manor, this one a bit more private and with definite dress code. The throne was pulled back into the living room, all the curtains drawn. Heavy maroon draperies were hung from the walls and the inside was lit only by candlelight. It was a perfect place to hold a meeting, and memorable for Delphia to enter the world of adults. The Dark Lord arrived at the home to a scraping Preia, whom He lifted gently from the floor and chided as an old friend. Tears pricked her eyes; she was proud, oh so proud, and could do no better than to host this most special event. A moment later He was flocked by black robed, white masked figures, more joining over the course of a quarter hour. Finally Delphia entered, wearing a flowing black robe showing her shoulders, her feet and arms bare, her face and body lacking any adornment. Her straight brown hair was brushed back and gleaming in the candlelight, each step dainty and self-assured. Hands clasped before her, she made a perfect picture of the dutiful woman presenting herself to the greatest wizard who graced the earth. 

Moving through the clutch of faceless others, Delphia knelt before the man who had stirred so much within her. Once more she could see the endless possibilities in His slitted red eyes, how the world begged her to command. It would all be hers, that and more. She held out her arm as He moved to her, a hush falling over the others. They had all done this and could remember how they felt. Limitless power, never-ending control. As the Dark Lord bent slightly and placed His wand to the inside of her pale left arm, Preia withheld the gasp. It was so wonderful, the image with her for the rest of her days. Her child, her beautiful child, kneeling serenely before the Dark Lord, accepting His mark with grace and then: it was burnt into her flesh, she was wincing slightly but let out no cry. In a second the image was gone; the Dark Lord was back in His throne, gazing upon the assembled, Delphia cradling her arm almost tenderly.

There it was, right there, curling on her flesh. It hurt, oh Merlin it hurt; there was nothing she could do about that but get used to it. All the others had. Looking around, she stared in wonder as the mood was suddenly ruptured and everyone began clumping together, chatting before attending to their Lord. As it was, three were hovering around Him as Preia stepped up, speaking with Him about the night.

It was time for Delphia to stand, to back away politely. She shouldn't be kneeling there anymore, no matter how in awe she was. Her fingers deftly stroked the inside of her tingling arm. This couldn't be; it couldn't be hers.

"Well whelp, was it everything you wanted?"

Her stomach dropped out of her body and went to the ground as her sight became blurry. Suddenly she felt dizzy and found breathing to be quite the exercise, her chest clenching like a vice, squeezing all the air from her. Righting herself on shaky feet, Delphia turned even as she craned her neck around, her gasp caught tightly in her throat. She felt like choking, like fainting, and like falling to her knees once more, sobbing this time.

Feeling her reaction to him, the myriad of scents wafting about him as a cloud, Fenrir's smirk faltered, his eyes widening somewhat. He had worked so hard convincing himself that she was nothing, worthless, but in a second, all those pretences had gone awry. He found himself fidgeting with his robes, tugging at them as he tried to make them fit better. Feeling her hands on him, he looked down and watched as she tidied his clothing, setting the robes right so they'd form to his rangy body. Panting at her touch, he growled at the way her face tipped up, her eyes flying to his with realisation of what she was doing.

As she drew away, he reached out and grabbed her wrists. She wasn't nearly as small as he remembered. He was rather large and the top of her head was at his chest. Feeling her slight struggle in his grip, he felt the sinewy muscles under his rough palms, realising then that she wasn't as weak, either.

"Fenrir," she gasped, looking around, "please." Trying to wrench herself out of his grasp, she stomped her feet in frustration. "Someone is going to ask why you're holding onto me."

Studying her fixedly before letting go, he knew she was right. Neither could voice to themselves why he was clutching her intently, or why she was so breathless, let alone to someone else.

"Outside," he rasped and she nodded, following on his heels to the curtained back doors. Brushing the covers aside, they stepped out onto the balcony and breathed deep the fresh air. Neither had realised how stifling the enclosed room had become or how warm from all the burning candles. Delphia was still struggling for breath as Fenrir bent to her, that keen gaze back in his gold eyes.

"You," she started, her voice cracking somewhat; she flushed and tried again; "you said you would teach me."

"So I did," he breathed roughly, studying the line of her jaw. He could only imagine it would be as silkily soft as her thigh.

"Will you?" she nearly squeaked, hope and desperation shining through her at the same time, causing him to smile a bit.

Shrugging aloofly, Fenrir turned his attention out to the empty yard, save a few statues faintly white in the moonlight.

"Please?" she murmured, stepping up beside him, bunching the front of her robe in her hands to give them something to do. She wanted to place her hand on his arm, to feel the strength and energy vibrating through him. It wasn't right though, no matter how she felt.

He grunted his reply, shifting his eyes back over to her. "The dagger?" he wondered, hoping beyond hope that _he_ would be the one to fetch it from under those simple robes that did so very much for her elegant figure. Her face went a shade redder and he smirked at that, watching as she fumbled with the robe. Reaching down as he knelt, it was his turn to help, lifting her robe high enough to see the leather winding around her leg. Stifling the groan, he pressed his palm to her thigh and got the same thrill he had the first time he'd done it. Allowing his hand to slide up to the hilt of the dagger, he could feel her body stiffen, smell her surprised desire just inches from his face. It was all he could do to not lean forward, to keep his mind on what he was supposed to be doing, rather than what he would have liked to do. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he pulled it from her body and her robes fell back down. She looked up at him, the blush still riding high on her cheeks as something other than discomfiture flashed in her green eyes. He stared back a moment, controlling himself, until he felt he could be in close proximity with her without forcing her over the railing and taking her as he liked.

Shoving the thought of her (moaning under him as he took his pleasure) from his mind, he pulled her back against him, putting the dagger in her hand. She shivered as they pressed together, moving against his body. He needed to touch her, to have what he could in this short time. Letting his hands slide down her arms, he then guided her movements, instructing her huskily. His voice was a pleasant rasp in her ear, every touch causing her flesh to flare up. Deftly, assuredly, he led her through series of motions, teaching her how to stab and slash properly, and how to hold herself as she did so. The motions repeated and repeated, until she had them down, knowing she could do them on her own.

He still didn't allow her out of his grip, instead enjoying her smell, breathing in deep as he made her keep practising. Letting her go was easy, he tried to convince himself even as he nuzzled her hair, gripping her hips to force her back against him. He could cease this maddening clawing at her robes, the nipping and gentle lapping at her ear any time he wished. They were only standing together because he wanted to make sure she knew what she was doing.

Delphia was limp against him, moans coming out of her throat in soft puffs, her arse writhing instinctively back against him, grinding herself against the arousal she felt through their robes. Instead of being shocked or horrified by his obvious erection, it spurred her on, whimpering as his teeth bit her ear, his tongue swirling along the delicate lobe. Reaching up blindly behind her, her hand found his matted hair and she pulled him in closer, taunting him as he breathed deeply; her scent, her need, positively oozed off her. His hands freely roamed her body, her loose robes doing nothing to protect her as he touched her, feeling her, her intoxicating smell driving him further.

There was a clang and a clatter that registered somewhere in his mind as her other hand went to his forearm, gripping him as her head twisted, better exposing her neck. A long sigh escaped her as his tongue trailed up the soft curve, licking along her jawline. Her hands were forcing him to her, holding him tighter around her body as she squirmed delightedly, enjoying the feel of him pressing against her. Her eyes were closed in utter rapture as she felt his nose and lips move along the column of her throat, leaving hot trails that quickly cooled in the night's air. She was shivering against him, mewling in the back of her throat for more as she clawed at him, wrapped up in nothing but this miasma of bliss. Fingers curling on his arm, she pushed his hand downward to touch her, to ease this blossoming ache in her belly. She knew the place he needed to attend to, wondered what his touch would be like and knew it would be nothing but ecstasy. His fingers bunched up her robes, pulling them higher, slowly exposing her legs and her thighs as he placed scorching open-mouthed licks and gentle bites along her shoulder. Now he was shaking as much as she, his loins tightening as the hem of her robe was nearly at her waist; she was completely exposed and wanted this, needed it.

As his hand went to cup her most private place, his finger began delving between her slick folds. His groan was devastating in her ear as her scent filled him with longing. She was ready, moist and more than hungry for him. The pad of his finger found the little stiff nub of her pleasure and she cried out sharply, his barely-there stroking almost painful. He wanted her; hard and eager to have her, he wanted to push her against the railing and hold that robe of hers against her back as he ravished her thoroughly until he slumped over her body, exhausted and spent. He wanted to smell their mating on the wind, hear her moans of satisfaction as he stoked that eagerness inside her until she was melting, wailing for him.

Oh yes, he thought as he touched her most intimately, his lips lingering against the side of her head, he would have her begging for him. Shifting his hand from his gentle fondling, he chuckled as she slumped and groaned unhappily. Then she sobbed as she felt his finger edging inside her, her hips arcing of their own accord. She wanted this, he knew, rubbing himself against her lower back, could smell it and taste it in the perspiration dotting her sweet skin.

"Moan for me," he rasped next to her cheek, making her knees weak, Fenrir having to hold her up against him. He throbbed, loving the way she reacted to him. "Moan for me, little one," he commanded, his voice raw, eyes eager as he looked down, taking in the sight. A pure-blooded witch, fresh with the Mark, gasping and writhing against the most brutal, feared werewolf in existence. It was almost too much for him; the fluttering of her eyes, the pucker of her moist, swollen lips; his body surged, ready to take her at any moment, begging him to sheath himself in the wet heat he was tenderly stroking.

Her face tipped back, her eyes drifting open to gaze unfocused into his own. With a sigh, her arm dropped to his shoulder, her grip on him going lax. Then her body was shuddering as she cried out in pleasure, muscles contracting wildly. Clutching onto her, prolonging her orgasm with his softest of touches, he cradled her to him as she drooped, eyes dazed. But his need was still unfulfilled, straining against her back, needing her attention. Using him for leverage, Delphia lifted herself up to press her mouth against his, not knowing what she was doing anymore and really not caring. Just as long as he kept this glorious assault upon her, she would be happy forever. His lips crushed down upon hers, golden eyes closing as her taste filled him with more desire than he had ever known. She was sweeter than a fresh kill, more wanton than an unattended bitch in heat. Turning her about in his arms as her lips parted under his, he threw the length of her robes back behind her, lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Plunging his tongue into her mouth, being received with eager suckling, he moved back until he was against the railing, resting on it. Holding her to him, he arched underneath her, pressing the tip of his length to her damp, willing body.

Her arms flung around his neck as she started to slowly sit down on him, feeling him fill her up inch by blessed inch. It was too good, this inhuman stretching, this slight twinge as she began taking him up inside her. It should have hurt, but she needed it so badly, was so ravenous for him, that she didn't feel any pain.

There was a rustling behind them, coming from the curtained room but they ignored it, wrapped up in themselves, Delphia urging him to push up inside her to end her aching. She needed him, wanted him; had to have him locked inside her yielding body. He was only too happy to indulge her, thrusting upward, revelling in her cries.

Voices accompanied the sounds at the door and Fenrir's eyes shot open even as his tongue duelled with hers. From the expression on her face, he knew she was too lost to notice any potential interruptions. Pulling back slightly, it the most agonising feeling he had ever forced himself through, he withdrew, having never even fully penetrated her. Her wail was heart wrenching as she felt him pull out and he quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, shushing her, eyes livid.

"Delphia, darling?" Preia's voice floated to the outdoors and Delphia gasped, blushing madly as she stared up at Fenrir. His gaze was just as intense and almost as frightened as her own. He allowed her robes to drop, wondering how he was going to hide what he was sporting. Escaping his grip with ease, Delphia rounded, her foot knocking into something. She glanced at the stone ground, seeing her dagger. Reaching for it, she picked it up as calmly as she could, her hands trembling.

"You're mine, later," came Fenrir's rasp in her ear, her whine and shiver nearly sending him over the edge. "You will not get out of it so easily then." As she turned to protest his last comment, she felt him move away from her. Looking behind her, she saw nothing and knew he had fled. To protect himself or her, she didn't know, but either way (though the tenderness inside had returned and became worse) she knew it would save them both.

As casually as she could muster, Delphia flipped the blade repeatedly in her palm, calming herself before placing it back underneath the thong around her leg. Steadying herself with a few deep breaths, she put on a face and went back inside.

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There you go! I've been really excited about posting this chapter, as you have all been such dedicated readers and deserve it n.n There's plenty more to come. I'm currently writing chapter 37, and am a few paragraphs away from chapter 38. If all goes according to plan, a special guest should be appearing in chapter 38, someone we've only seen a couple times until then. Ooooh! Tingly suspence! So there's a lot more coming for you guys. Keep enjoying, keep reviewing and I'll keep having a blast writing.

BL


	13. Chapter XII: Enduring the Worst

Chapter XII: Enduring the Worst

The rest of that night had gone rather smoothly, for all that Delphia was feeling inside. Upon re-entering the isolated room her mother had swooped down upon her, dragging her around to all the others she had to meet. People she had seen or known beforehand, but never in this capacity. She was polite, demure, and the slight far-away look, the somewhat forlorn expression, was accepted as being her awe over everything and the slight shock of realisation; she had just joined the brethren she had been born into. It was a glorious feeling, they knew, but one met with some despair. So long one hoped to join, the eagerness building up inside; once you had it, it was euphoric but at last, a part of your life had come to an end.

Thankfully, Delphia wasn't so in shock that she wanted to correct anyone on their assumptions. In a way, they were right as well. She was feeling those things, but so much had happened just after taking the Mark that they were buried under the tide of emotion and loss overcoming her. The meeting came to a close and the Dark Lord took His leave first, noticing that one of His compatriots was missing. He said nothing; instead, His red eyes flitted to the back of Delphia's head. She was currently speaking with her mother and a small group of others, interjecting timidly every so often. Removing His gaze from her, He knew He could deal with Fenrir later. Nothing happened that passed His gaze, especially when two left a room and only one returned. It was of little consequence: He had seen inside her mind twice. That was enough to know her; she bared all for Him, having no fear of His presence; rather, a great, ever-reaching respect.

Once He had bid everyone farewell and goodnight, the others began leaving in a slow, steady stream, until the closest of the host family were the last ones to go. Delphia heaved a sigh as her mother rounded, eyes narrowing at her child.

"Where did you go?" she demanded, looking quite stern as she marched over, glowering up at Delphia. "This was for you and leaving in the midst of it was rude behaviour."

For the first time in her life, Delphia truly wasn't in the mood. "Mother, I was overwhelmed and needed fresh air. I came back and made my rounds. I still have to learn, mother. I don't know everyone as everyone else does." Rubbing her face with the palms of her hands, she shook her head. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, mother." Before Preia could respond scathingly, Delphia had turned about and stalked off, not seeing her mother's wand in her hand. But before the punishment could be meted, Delphia was out of sight. Preia slowly put her wand away, wondering if perhaps her daughter wasn't right. She seemed so delicate sometimes. The fresh air had probably done her good. Shaking her head slowly to herself, the matriarch made her way to her rooms.

Once in her bedroom, Delphia had clawed off her robe and thrown herself into her bed. She was exhausted but couldn't sleep. Her mind and body were over-stimulated, a dull throb between her thighs pounding into her head. Rolling over onto her side with an unhappy sigh, she clutched at her stomach, wondering why that had to happen. Why did he pull out? They could have . . . there had been enough time, her mother wasn't at the door yet. He had been paranoid. And now, now she had to wait for him. She had been so close to getting everything she wanted in one night; the agony of having to wait was almost too much for her. She felt she would go mad waiting for the next meeting, wondering how they would get away this time. If they even could. Then would she have to wait for the get-together after that? What if it was impossible then too? Screaming down into her pillow, Delphia shut her eyes against the stinging tears. It wasn't fair. They couldn't just try to sneak around in a houseful of people, risking getting caught at any moment. While the risk, as he had once said, made things so much more tempting, the risk at hand was a little too large. There had to be another way, had to be. Still struggling with herself, her mind whizzing about in her head, fatigue was too much for her body and she slept uneasily.

* * *

When it came to dressing for work now, it was important to keep her left arm completely covered. It would do no good for her to be found out so soon. Especially since the Ministry was doing their best to deny His return and she felt some pride at thinking that she was aiding in that. Even just a little bit was enough to make her happy. Carefully going through her wardrobe, she picked out one of her regular outfits, but added a small, light long-sleeve to go under the robe to cover her arms. It wasn't near heavy enough to look strange and after a few days of this, it would be normal. No one would question her slight change in dress. No one noticed her enough to notice her robes in the first place. Perhaps Katrine, who took to wearing more Muggle-like clothes at work, but even then, the outfit wasn't unsuitable for summer. Really more for spring, but Delphia could claim that she had been finding the office a tad cool lately. 

Going to her vanity to brush her hair and to study the ensemble, Delphia paused with the brush hovering over her head, her eyes narrowing at first, then going slightly wide. There were little red marks that looked almost like abrasions all along her neck and up her ear. A warm flush spread through her just before the cold dread set in. Examining the marks, she knew exactly what they were, though they just looked like little scratches. Sighing with resignation as she began brushing her hair, she settled on simply lying about it. She had scratched herself in her sleep, it was nothing. The skin wasn't even broken.

But she knew that wounds caused by a werewolf never healed, and she suspected the same from him in his human form. Thankfully the exposed marks were so small; she may just be able to heal them so they looked like natural blemishes. Freckles or something, though she had never been prone to freckles before. Heading over to a small cupboard sitting on a desk in the corner of her room, she opened it and studied the bottles inside. Picking out a blue one, she daubed some healing potion onto her neck and ear then studied the bottle in her hand. Every little bit helped, she knew, but this wouldn't do much for werewolf bites. Groaning in her head, she realised she really hadn't thought this through. How was she to hide it if he was going to bite her in such exposed areas? It was enough that she was wearing long sleeves to hide the Mark, but now having to wear scarves and collars to hide _his_ marks?

Her eyes drifted down to the Potion's kit she had had all through Hogwarts. What if . . .? Could she even ask Professor Snape? A hypothetical from her reading? Would wolfsbane added to healing potions aid in curing werewolf bites? She knew it would do nothing to major wounds, but something as tiny as her neck . . . It could work. The only problem was she didn't want to risk some strange reaction in the potion or on her skin from her lack of knowledge. The question would have to wait until the next meeting, if he was even there.

Damn it! She slammed the bottle down on the table and snarled in anger, baring her teeth. This was pathetic; stupid! Everything she needed and wanted _had to wait_. Everything within her felt like life or death, but she had to be a patient, good little girl, didn't she? Nothing came to the hasty except quick deaths, but for her life to hang on freaking meetings was annoying to say the least.

Scowling to herself as she realised she was on the verge of being late, Delphia stomped down to the kitchens for her breakfast and made a hasty exit.

* * *

His knuckles were becoming raw and starting to crack and bleed. Still he kept up his assault on his bedroom wall, anger seething through him. He had been so close, the moon beckoning him on, coaxing him almost as beautifully as Delphia had. She was his; he _had _her, right there, around him. Giving the wall a good jab, he roared in pain and frustration. Shaking his hand out with a wince, Fenrir sucked at his oozing knuckle, the sharp taste of blood filling his mouth. He had been inside her, taking her and he had stopped. There had been no option, he knew, but . . . it wasn't fair. It wasn't right damn it. He was supposed to have anything in the world, anything he liked, at any time he wanted. Yet he had had to force himself from having the one thing that could have eased his body and mind. 

The sound of his door opening caught his attention and he turned, seeing Aneya standing in the doorway, her brows arched.

"You usually aren't one for self-flagellation," she murmured, studying his naked, rangy form. "What happened Alpha, to put you in such a state?"

He just growled and turned away, resting his head against the wall. There was no way he was going to wait until the next meeting. He couldn't; his mind would have broken by then.

"I was right there," he rasped against the faded, peeling wallpaper, glowering angrily, "right there, inside her. And then . . ." he slammed the wall with the side of his fist.

"Ahh, so the urge to mate _has_ finally overtaken you," Aneya said as she edged into the room, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's your right you know, your duty."

Whining dog-like, Fenrir shook his head. "She isn't a werewolf."

That gave Aneya pause, sucking her lower lip into her mouth as she pondered his statement. "Make her one," she finally told him with a slight shrug.

"I can't," he grunted as he pushed himself away from the wall and sat on his bed, examining his hands. "I can't; not yet."

"She's a witch?"

He nodded slowly.

Snorting as she sat on the bed with him, Aneya gave him another shrug. "Then the moon is telling you to do what you should have done years ago. I take it she's a Death Eater?"

Another sullen nod.

"Then take her as you wish. She's still, technically, one of us."

His eyes moved to his left arm, studying the branding there. Aneya was right, of course. Being a Death Eater, she was still on their side, especially with her strange interests. She had said that her mother would beat her for her obsession with werewolves. He could only imagine Preia's reaction to knowing her precious daughter was _mating_ with one of them and their leader, no less.

Still, Aneya knew what she was talking about. It was his right, after all, to take a mate. And perhaps she was also right on the count that he should have done that long ago. But there had been no desire, no mind-wrenching urge, no call from the moon. Why now? Was it just that her call had been late and he happened to stumble upon someone who could sate him soon after? He wasn't sure, nor was he sure how the moon decided what she did, but there was no denying it now. It would be foolish for him to talk himself down. The need was obvious and there was no refuting her call. The moon or otherwise.

"What do I do?" he snapped harshly, glad that Aneya took everything in stride.

"Go to her. And have your way." With those words, she squeezed his shoulder then padded off, shutting the door behind her. Snarling at the door, it took him a moment to find more advice in her words than he had first realised.

* * *

Work was hell; it would always be hell, and there was no getting around it. From dawn until dusk it was droning toil, the need for most to bring money home to the family overcoming the sense of defeat, of knowing one could never become better or truly enjoy life anymore. Delphia had never felt this so sharply as she did now, just wanting to leap up and run out of the Ministry, needing to flee this world of wizards. All she wanted was to replay that night but have it fold out in full glory, have it finish. She wondered why she always had to feel lost and uneasy, why she had to be driven through this pain. What was so wrong with demanding a little pleasure now and then? Or, from how she felt, demanding a lot of pleasure all the time. It wasn't much; she could still do her jobs: for the Ministry, for the Dark Lord. Most people who worked were married; it didn't interrupt with their work. Why did she have to be affected in such a way? 

So wrapped up in her mind she was that she didn't notice Katrine staring at her as she mangled another quill, lost in thought. Why this? Why couldn't she just have him and be done with it, positively gorging her body with his? He had given her a taste and then pulled away, causing her innards their ceaseless twisting. There was nothing fair about this damned world she lived in. Muggles encroaching on their territory, Mudbloods filling up their ranks. She was doing her best for the good fight, to preserve the purity and sanctity of their world, and yet she was just driven from one torture to the next. Why should she, such a small player in the greater scheme of things, be put through so much?

Setting her shoulders and deciding that self-pity wasn't the route to go, Delphia tossed her useless quill aside and plucked another one from her top drawer. If she couldn't settle herself with thought (which really just seemed to make things worse) then she would do it as everyone else did. By burying herself with work.

* * *

A week passed and to Delphia's surprise and utter relief, she found her infatuation dwindling. It seemed that work really did do wonders sometimes. Her mind was kept off of Fenrir for most of the day and when she was home, her reading helped with the rest. She couldn't bring herself to read anything on werewolves yet, for she feared if she did, the ebbing need would shoot back through her. Instead she set upon her Dark Arts texts, her mother demanding every so often that she put the damned books down and actually _practice_. She found as she followed through with her mother's commands that keeping her body as busy as her mind aided her recovery as well. In fact, she started finding herself glad that she hadn't gone through with it all with Fenrir. She would be regretting it now, having lost all her self-control for a moment's passion. It could have destroyed her, ruined her life, especially had they been caught. 

Instead of feeling agony over his withdraw, she felt relief, or at least she commanded herself that she felt so. The edge inside her softened until the pain had receded almost completely. Thankfully life was getting back to normal, as well as herself. So much so that she wasn't even worried about the next meeting. She hadn't heard anything on it either and she wasn't quite sure when it'd be. Not that it mattered. She didn't have to interact with Fenrir; she could concentrate all her energies on the Dark Lord and His needs, rather than some stupid mutt with a fetish for young witches. Her life, after all, had been moulded for the service of the wizarding world, rather than service to a husband and family. Mother always knew best, and knew that her child would be leaving her prime by the time she finished with child-rearing, her best years spent wiping runny noses and changing diapers. There was no way Preia would have allowed that until Delphia's place in their world was secure. And now that the Dark Lord was back, there wasn't time for even thoughts of dalliance, let alone actually finding and being with someone.

Her own feelings and urges were naught compared to the might of the Dark Lord and what He could offer her. He could give her power and glory everlasting, a place in their world when He succeeded, overcoming the decrepit government she served, destroyed the boy who demanded much too much attention. Ambition swam through her head as she remembered gazing into those red eyes, seeing legions of wizards kneeling at her feet, begging for mercy. Her bloodlust shone in those eyes as well, the sight of her cutting down their enemy one too great to deny. Rivulets of blood trickled all around her as she gazed upon the carnage, the wasteland that was once their world. And she was queen of it all.

He had a way of making everyone see their innermost desires, and Delphia was no exception. She was young, idealistic, and desperate to prove her worth. She would do anything to serve Him; to claim what she had been told was hers by birthright, in any means possible. If she had to ignore this lingering gnawing in her belly, then so be it. She needed nothing but to stand by His side, commanding others to her bidding, ducking into the fray as she wished, just for the pleasure of the kill, the wash of warm blood across her flesh.

She would demonstrate the destruction a witch could cause with a wand in one hand and a dagger in the other. There was a slight pulling in her as she thought of the dagger, but it wasn't nearly as strong as it had once been. Yes, finally, she was getting over him. Nothing had happened and nothing ever would. She preferred it that way, to better serve her world.

* * *

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX 

Heeeey guys . Sorry about the long wait; I've just been lazy and not on my computer. . Sorry. Anyhoo! Chapter 12. Yes, well, at least it has Fenrir in it. I know, I know, you all want the good stuff. Next chapter. I swear.

BL


	14. Chapter XIII: Come to Me, Little One

A/N: This chapter is early, but I feel bad about making you guys wait so long for the last one. I really hope you guys like this chapter. And please review . ENJOY!!

* * *

Chapter XIII: Come to Me, Little One

As day faded into night, Delphia tucked away her wand and returned to her chair in the library, going back to reading. She hadn't even bothered sparring with her dagger, telling herself she didn't need to. A little voice in the back of her head prodded her, trying to tell her different, that she hadn't practised for some nebulous reason that she didn't want to even begin picking apart. Settling back in the plush chair, she cracked open the book to the chapter on the Unforgivables. She had been taught them not so long ago, in seventh year by Mad-Eye Moody. An Auror who had given her the chills since she had first stepped foot in class. Perhaps it was because Aurors were the bane of her peoples' existence, or because she had heard horrifying stories of what they did to her father's kind and their families. Being the child of a known, murdered Death Eater in the presence of an Auror, and being taught the curses of her father's trade by him no less, had made her more than uneasy. Maybe, just maybe, she thought as she looked back, it had been more than that. There had been rumours after the Tournament, after Diggory's corpse had been brought back to Hogwarts; Mad-Eye wasn't what he seemed. It had, after all, just been rumour, but still, something hadn't been right, _ever_, in his classes.

Studying the Cruciatus, Delphia thought it would be a good place to start. The Imperious took great will and strength of mind as one had to take over the mind of another. And the Killing Curse . . . well, that went without saying. But to inflict pain on someone, especially when she took such delight in it, wouldn't be nearly as difficult as the other two. It was a very useful curse as well, as useful as the others, and in some ways, more so. One could drive someone mad with enough patience, or get information with a few good strikes. Learning this curse and learning to use it with some proficiency would show her eagerness to serve Him. She would abandon all for the glory of the Dark Lord.

When it was getting late, Delphia abandoned her reading and went to the kitchen for a mug of milky tea before heading off to bed. Once she had settled under her covers and was comfortable, she fell asleep easily for the first time in weeks. Finally life had returned to normal, her body ceasing its yearning, her mind no longer troubled. Everything seemed to be going well for her at last.

* * *

A noise was stirring her out of sleep. Desperate to stay abed, she buried her face in a pillow and tried to keep dreaming. But already half-awake, the sound was clearer now, slowly rousing her, pulling her from rest. Yawning with an unhappy groan, Delphia rolled over and stared up at the canopy, her blankets bunched up around her. She had been sleeping so peacefully. Of course something would have to ruin that as well. Nothing would ever go completely right in her life she supposed. As the noise came across the grounds once more, she tried to get back to sleep. Just some damned wolves, from the woods on the border of her family's land it sounded like. Closing her eyes and trying to shut out the din, one of her eyes opened a crack a moment later. 

What wolves? Blinking a few times with this realisation, she tried desperately to think if there were any wolves, rogue or otherwise, in the lands surrounding her family manor, or even the lands beyond. Ever since she was a child, however, she had known what lived in the trees off in the distance; and wolves weren't one of them. But there was no mistaking that howl. That was definitely a – oh Merlin . . . Leaping out of bed and nearly tripping on the tangled blankets she had dragged with her, Delphia ran to the window and opened it to better hear. It couldn't be.

The sound was haunting and hungry, almost tortured. Looking up, she noticed the moon had passed its full phase and was just coming out of darkness. Well, she wouldn't be in any danger, no matter how needy the howls were. Her body trembled; how had she known? As the voice was carried on the wind to her window, her hands clutched at the pane. To anyone else's ears she knew it would have been a sound that struck fear and horror into the deepest core of them. But what she heard was completely different. It was pleading, eerie and too much for her to ignore. She found herself reacting, wanting to console him, to stroke his matted hair and pull him close.

But she felt nothing, didn't she? Warmth started in her nether regions and moved all through her. Time apart had dulled the feelings, or so she had made herself believe, but she hadn't been rid of them completely. Grabbing a house robe from the back of a chair, Delphia threw it on even as she ran out of her room, nearly choking on the surge of need welling up within her. Her feet brought her swiftly through the house, down the servant stairs, to the back corridors. Coming to the concealed door leading out to the sprawling fields under her window, she opened it deftly and dived out onto the lawn.

She gasped and clutched at her chest pathetically, seeing a figure striding towards her. Unable to stop herself, she began hurtling towards it, knowing even from this distance who it was. Her robe was trailing out behind her and she didn't care that she was wearing next-to-nothing. If she had it her way, she would be wearing too much in a moment. Seeing his golden eyes glint in the moonlight made her heart spasm, her limbs weaken and she stumbled slightly, just wanting to get to him. Her desire ate at her, drove her on even as she felt that she could barely run another metre, her legs as soft as the place between them.

Fenrir stood there as she tore towards him, having heard his call. She leapt at him, her body melding immediately to his as his hands cupped her arse, holding her up as their mouths met over and over, hot and needy. Delphia hadn't even noticed his state of undress, hadn't cared one whit. He was perfect as is, and all the better for it as he bore her down on the ground, their lips still pressing together in an open-mouthed embrace. Stretching out above her, he pushed the slinky nightgown up, her robe sprawled out on the grass as luxuriously as herself. Her chest was heaving as he propped himself up over her on his arms, studying her. As her legs wrapped around his hips he groaned and covered her with him, his body finding hers and finally the rapture they had been begging for was theirs. He sheathed himself within her in one thrust, her body accommodating him eagerly. Her hips began moving, bucking up against him as he moved atop her, his cries as feverishly pleased as hers. They needed this, oh Merlin they needed it. And it was all theirs as Delphia's hands clawed at Fenrir's bare back, his teeth sinking into her shoulder.

The desperation of their mating was made tangible as Delphia tossed her head back and howled into the night sky, her body quaking underneath Fenrir's, her muscles clamping down on him, sealing him within her. He growled into her neck, his stabbing thrusts more fervent now, his want building up until he was blind to everything around him; all but the writhing woman beneath him, relaxing and being brought back up to a second, mind-shattering climax. Her limbs jerked about him as he pressed inside her, unleashing his own howl as his body emptied within hers. He lay gasping on her, his heart beating rapidly, able to feel hers thudding in her chest. Breathing deep the scent of them mingled in the grass, he nuzzled her hair and lapped at the side of her face.

"Fenrir," she breathed as she clutched onto him, holding him inside her even as she felt him soften. There was no way she was letting go now; no way was she going to allow him to slip away into the night and from her life forever. He was hers now; she could feel him deep inside her body, the warmth and slight ache in her channel bringing her an euphoria she had never known before.

Detangling himself somewhat from her limbs, he gazed down at her, still struggling for breath. She stared back up, wondering how she could have ever thought herself over him. He was everything. Bringing her hand down, she dragged her fingers across his cheek in wonder, amazed at the fact that he was on top of her, still inside her, and that he would be hers forever. She would give him no option in the matter.

"Wolves mate for life," she managed to get out, her thumb stroking along the grey whiskers on his face, feeling him stiffen within her at her words. He had liked that? Her forwardness, her soft demanding of his continual attentions? From the way his mouth pressed against hers and his hips began rocking once more, she murmuring her approval, she knew that yes, and he always would.

A bit later into the night found Fenrir sprawled out on his back, breathing heavily, Delphia curled up against his side, her head on his shoulder. They had been silent the past few minutes, both basking in and recovering from their frenzied union. Delphia let out a little sigh and curled her arm around his chest, pulling herself tighter to his side. His muscles twitched somewhat as his body went rigid, unused to someone touching him intimately in such a casual way. Then he relaxed, realising he enjoyed it from her. Hand going to her hair, he held her there as his breathing regulated, his eyes locked on the moon. He had been right, she had been telling him something. And he had found it. Scowling somewhat, he glanced down at the girl resting peacefully on him. What did that mean for him now? For his pack? Dare he even consider what it was going to do to Delphia? He had to contend with the fact that he had just lain with a witch, and not just once, but multiple rapturous times. Though he could comfort the thought by knowing she was a Death Eater. And he and his people were allied with the Dark Lord. Still . . . she was one of the ones he was supposed to hate. In her upbringing those like himself were supposed to be loathed. Her upbringing, however, didn't seem to have much weight in her interest in all things werewolf. He nearly chuckled at that. Interest indeed.

Feeling his shift in mood, Delphia peered up at him and saw him studying her. Cocking her head to the side, she almost looked like a curious puppy to his eyes. In a right world she would have been brought back to his den and lead in his stead when he couldn't. The Alpha female cared for the pack and could rule as the male did. But this wasn't a right world and neither of them could have their way.

"What now?" he grunted, his hand slipping down to her back, hauling her atop him to get a better look. Her nightgown left nearly nothing to the imagination; still, he would have preferred her as nude as himself. Perhaps next time.

Her brows lifted somewhat. "What do you mean? You're not running off, are you?" she spat, a scowl darkening her features.

Throwing his head back with laughter, he shook his head. "I'd have to be a fool. And that I'm not." Returning his penetrating gaze to her face, he frowned somewhat. "You're tired. It's late. Go back in the house."

Frowning back at him, she shook her head, firmly clamping her legs against his sides. "I'm not going anywhere until you explain what you meant, Fenrir."

"Go, Delphia," he growled as he shoved her off, sitting up in the grass and clawing at his messy hair. Falling to the ground, limbs akimbo, she glowered up at him, not making any moves to leave. "Your mother would kill us both," he tacked on as an afterthought, not really wanting to consider the wrath of the elder Sonder. To have her daughter dishonoured, _sullied_ by him would have been too great an insult to ignore. Both of them would taste Crucio were they found out, even for just this, and he didn't doubt that he'd be seeing green moments later. Not to mention if they decided to continue.

Nudging his ribs with her foot, Delphia got his attention back to herself. "What did you mean, 'what now'?" she questioned as she sat up beside him, watching as he propped his arms up on his knees and leant forward.

Lifting his shoulders, he turned his head to her. "I can't take you to my pack."

She grunted her agreement. "Too many questions. _Way_ too many questions. I have to stay here."

"We can't wait for meetings," he murmured as he looked down at the ground in front of him, thinking to himself. "I can come here."

"You do need to teach me how to kill," Delphia pointed out matter-of-factually. "I could try to raise the issue with my mother; I might be able to get permission to see you now and then."

"Not enough," he growled, reaching out and grabbing her, pulling her to him. "You're mine now, whelp." His rasp was firm, forceful, but somehow soft as he snarled in her face. Leaning up and ignoring the instinct screaming at her to run as she had a slightly miffed werewolf grasping onto her, she kissed him.

"I know," she whispered as their lips broke apart. "But it doesn't change the fact that you'll be crucified and I'll be sorely punished if anyone finds out."

"So it's more you want, is it?" he mocked gently, letting go of her, a rumble of approval sounding in his chest as she sat next to him, pressing her body alongside his.

"Of course," she snapped in return, "I'd have to be as much a fool as you to say otherwise." This caused him to laugh again, exasperating her somewhat.

"You're brave, or stupid," he growled back, nudging her leg with his own. "To speak to a werewolf, _me_ in such a manner . . ."

"After hearing you moan my name as you did," she replied dryly, hiking a brow, "you don't seem nearly as dangerous as before." Never in her life had she seen a man so overcome by a fit of laughter, his shoulders actually shaking as tears came to his eyes, and she could have never imagined such a thing from Fenrir Greyback.

Punching him in the shoulder, she smirked at him as he sobered up. "Am I amusing you?" she wondered.

"Always," he rasped, turning and lunging on her, causing her to squeal delightedly. Prying her flailing legs apart, he insinuated himself between her thighs, pinning her to the ground. "So it's this you want than, whelp?" he breathed as he licked the length of her throat, forcing his tongue in her mouth as she moaned, her arms winding around his neck.

"Yes," she sighed as he looked down at her. Snickering, he rolled off her, sprawling back out on the ground.

"Go back inside," he repeated, issuing his former command. "I'll come back to you when I can."

"Ohhh," she started, sitting beside him and poking him in the chest, "so it's your needs that are to be attended to? I'm to languish away in my ivory tower, waiting for my prince charming to come and ravish me on his own cock's schedule?"

She was too much. Brash, fearless and so horrifically passionate; he was going to have a lot of fun with her. "Something of the sort," he returned, squinting up at her, the curling of his lips betraying his somewhat serious tone. Then his face switched and he truly was serious. "Delphia, go inside. It's going to be daylight soon."

Her eyes softened as he pushed himself up and crouched on his haunches. "When will-?" She was silenced when Fenrir put a claw-tipped finger to her lips and shook his head.

Standing, he glanced about. "As the daylight; soon." And he was off, disappearing within a minute. Sighing to herself, not satisfied with his answer but at least knowing he would be back, she hauled her behind off the ground and brushed the bits of grass and leaves from her robes. Then she went back inside, sneaking to her room, hoping beyond hope that no house-elves would see her. Or even worse, her siblings or their mother. Making it safely to her room, she went to take off her robe as she walked through her sitting room. Wincing as she rolled her shoulder with the movement, she managed to cast the robe aside. Going to her vanity, she lit a lamp and used her fingers to probe at the tender, blood-crusted spot. Noticing the bite marks in her flesh, she scowled, knowing that if someone saw it, they would demand explanation. And no matter what she did, werewolf bites just wouldn't heal. Doing what she could with healing potion, knowing it would take the edge off and help a tad, she touched the wound again, this time, smiling to herself. He had marked her as surely as the Dark Lord had. And it was a tough decision to decide which she preferred. Extinguishing the lamp, she went into her bedroom and tore off her nightgown (for it felt as if she was wearing too much now), collapsing naked in the bed sheets.

* * *

The sun came up over the gardens of the Sonder manse, refracting off the droplets of dew dribbling down fresh green leaves or collected in the gentle curves of multi-coloured petals. Little figures strewn throughout the pathways, hidden from the view of most, shook themselves off with the touch of sunlight, their metallic forms basking in the warmth. Through the thick bushes up to the fruit trees there merely for decoration, birds called to their mates and warned others off their territory, it sounding like a beautiful clashing of song to the uninitiated.

In the house the elves had been stirring for some time, their day never truly ending or beginning. The manor had to be tidied before everyone awoke; the breakfasts to be cooked needed to be started. Small forms rushed around the kitchen and hallways, making sure everything was ready in the usual early morning ritual. One elf went to Delphia's room to make sure the young mistress was coming down to eat. They knew that grave punishments awaited the girl if she was late for work, and so as good house-elves, they took it upon themselves to make sure everything was sorted and organised. Including the children. Though, they weren't really children anymore.

The massive bed held a single, curled up figure with a slight smile on her face. Sunlight was already streaming into the room, glinting off all the characteristic silver; her family, and those she had grown up with, were inordinately fond of the metal. The house-elf, whose turn it was to check on her, appeared in her room and edged to the bed. A little gasp was pressed back into her mouth as her hands flew to her lips, eyes going wide at the sight. The youngest Sonder was nude, in her bed, and her legs and hips were covered in scratch marks. Trembling, the elf saw dried blood on the sheets, wondering what horrible things had befallen the Miss, and why she slept so peacefully and happily afterwards.

Maybe, like her brothers, a fight had done her good. But she had always seemed more of the studious type, rather than the violent.

"Miss, Miss?" the house-elf squeaked as she shook Delphia, careful to avoid the painful-looking marks. The girl groaned and rolled over, completely exposed, and the elf ducked her head, glancing elsewhere. "You is having to wake, Miss!"

Opening her eyes slowly, Delphia stared up at the canopy. Morning already? She felt like she had just gone to bed . . . Yawning as she sat up, she realised with a start that she was naked. Blinking a few times and completely ignoring the elf, a blush crept up her body, spreading across her chest and cheeks. Oh Merlin . . . she had . . . with _him_ . . . this _morning?_ Moaning euphorically as she collapsed back down on the bed, the smile that had been with her all night finally broke out on her face. She remembered how he looked down at her, the sound of his voice rasping in her ear; she could still feel his weight on her, the way his rangy body moved atop hers, inside her.

Had she actually howled? Stifling the giggle, her eyes went to the small figure purposefully staring away from the bed and she frowned.

"What is it, elf?" she demanded, sitting back up, figuring she had to get up now even if she really wanted to sleep. Or to hunt down Fenrir and demand more. But he had promised he would be back soon; if he wasn't, she'd try out that dagger he had given her next time they met.

"Miss is having to get up now," the elf mumbled, fidgeting with her rags. "Miss is needing healing."

Furrowing her brow at the elf, she shook her head. She had taken care of the bite last night. Setting it into her head to order the elf to not say anything to anyone, for fear of her wrath, she watched as the elf lifted her small hand and pointed at her waist. Her head was still ducked as if she refused to look at her.

Following the pointing, Delphia saw the angry red welts the elf had obviously seen while she was still sleeping. Pursing her lips, she studied her hips and legs, realising Fenrir had done more damage than she had previously thought.

"Fine, get me healed up. No one will see them," she snapped smartly, hopping from the bed. "Get me some robes, I'm tired and don't feel like doing anything myself. Move."

The elf began running around the room at the orders, first grabbing healing potion and daubing it across the claw marks; then she was getting robes and helping Delphia dress. When she was sure that she was completely covered up, including her Mark, Delphia went to her vanity and brushed her hair, contemplating her reflection.

"Elf?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"You will tell no one of what you saw this morning. No one, including my mother. If you do, I will punish you myself; if I have to do that, I will make my mother seem as a joke." Whipping about, the brush still in her hand, she snarled viciously. "Am I clear?"

The elf bobbed a curtsey and nodded. "I is understanding, Miss."

"Good," Delphia purred congenially, returning to the mirror. "Now go. Make sure my breakfast is ready." As the elf disappeared, Delphia's stomach grumbled, telling her that she was, in fact, quite hungry. She hadn't even realised that; then again, from the exercise the night before (the thought making her blush further, a sigh welling up) she supposed she needed the energy.

Tossing the brush down on the vanity, knowing someone else would clean it up for her, she headed down to the kitchen for breakfast.


	15. Chapter XIV: CoverUps

Wow, guys o.o Thanks for the reviews. They made meh so happeh . I got a new job a couple weeks ago, so I've been really busy and my life's been kinda upsidedown. No writing lately, but I did just buy a new keyboard, so I'll probably be writing more soon, just to play on it XD Anyhoo, please review, and cookies to those that do . Oh, and on the spelling and grammar; yeah . . . I know. I proofread continually, so even after a chapter is up, I find more mistakes and things I should change and yadda yadda. But I do try and get the worst of it before my beta picks through the leavings. But because the story is continually evolving into a final draft, even as you are all reading it, I'm fixing and changing it, so I don't expect perfection. So if there are any problems, just tell me so I can fix them faster than finding them on my own. Danke

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Chapter XIV: Cover-Ups

The office was silent save for Katrine's munching of her apple as Delphia stepped inside and tossed her bag in the general direction of her desk. Her shot was slightly off, the bag rebounding off the wooden side of the desk and coming to a halt at the wall behind it. Katrine's brows lifted mid-bite, studying the location of the bag, the desk, then Delphia.

"I'd say nice shot," she said as she finished biting and began chewing, "but it wasn't."

That caused Delphia to snort with laugher, sitting at her desk, pulling out her usual (unmangled) quill. Ticking her chin with the wispy tip, she studied the far wall, thinking to herself. When she had arrived at work, the main chamber of the Ministry, as people Fooed or Apparated in, had been buzzing with talk. People were even clustered in little knots chattering about what had happened if they knew and listening intently if they didn't. Apparently, none of this was in the newspaper, and the only way any wizards or witches could find out was first-hand, from people in the appropriate sectors of the Ministry.

Frowning slightly at that, Delphia dropped her quill and stood, going to Katrine's desk, snatching the day's paper up without a word. Katrine made weak protest, but when she saw Delphia's faraway, intense gaze, she quieted and just went for her tea. Watching the other girl read, Katrine was puzzled slightly by her, which happened every now and then. Especially when she had to hand over even the stupidest slips of paper pertaining to Potter; or now, Dumbledore as well. Who was she, and what exactly was she doing here?

There was nothing, Delphia realised, her eyes widening somewhat, nothing in the paper about Harry Potter's impending expulsion. Not a solitary word about his use of underaged magic, not a thing about Dementors. Her hands dropped then as she mouthed the word. Of course; that was it. The feather in the Ministry's cap, the way they could really add to this smear campaign had to be hushed up because of the _Dementors_. If people found out that was the reason, even his excuse, for his use of magic, there would be upheaval. They would become fearful, revolt against the current Minister even, when it was being worked at so hard to keep them calm and stupid. Natrually there was nothing mentioned. If they said he was using underaged magic, they would have to say why. Or people would ask why and they would eventually get to the answer. There would be demands, to know why Dementors were stalking people in the streets, whether the Ministry had them under control; and of course, why Harry Potter was being punished for saving his and a Muggle's life, being a hero yet again. But there couldn't be any of that; the people couldn't be told a thing, no matter how good some of it could make the Ministry look. Instead they were told what they needed to know, and they followed along, satisfied that all was well in their world, that the hero amongst them was a raving loon starving for notice. Good little sheep, really.

Pondering over this a moment, allowing the paper to drift back down onto Katrine's desk as she wandered to her own, she sat in silent reverie. _Were_ they still within the Ministry's grasp? Had that been a random occurrence outside their control? Or . . . Had it been someone in the Ministry who set the Dementors upon Harry Potter? For some reason, this last one seemed most feasible. It was insane to even entertain the thought of an "upstanding" Wizard or Witch doing something so illegal and blatant; also blatantly illegal. Those who would have most cause, those like herself, couldn't even risk the chance of doing it, for if it came back on them, the risk to the Dark Lord and Death Eaters was too grave. Besides, that anyone would do such a thing, and have the ability to do it, or the _idea, _was impossible. It was the idea bit that kept sticking to the back of Delphia's mind, itching like a too-tight ponytail.

Her mother said she knew that Delphia had a hand in the Dementor attack: the only person she had hinted at getting rid of Potter to had been Umbridge. Then all this happened: had Umbridge perhaps spoken to someone, who took it into their own hands? The risk though, the risk; apparently someone didn't care about risks anymore. And if that was the case, they couldn't go telling people about Dementors attacking Harry Potter and insist that they were still in their control. They were stuck where they were, being forced to forgo the trump in hopes of something better later.

Sometimes one had to be patient. Not that she really cared. This was out of her realm. She wasn't here to follow things through, to make sure certain things happened. Her only job was to initiate and make sure Umbridge denied the Dark Lord's return. It really wasn't much of an effort, as the woman herself seemed intent on ignoring reality. So for now, Delphia had a relatively comfy job in which she just had to do paperwork, get paid, and hint at the fact that Potter was an insane attention-grabbing freak, and she was doing well.

Doing well . . . yes . . . thankfully her job wasn't making much of a toil on her now, as she had other things in her life to worry about. Making her mother proud and happy, doing justice to her family name and her father's memory were enough, but that was just the beginning. She would also be staring her work for the Dark Lord; she would have to jump in at the next meeting, though she doubted anything would be really happening with the whole "keeping quiet" thing. And of course, there was that softness inside her accompanied by an almost delightfully raw feeling. The final stress in her life was the fact that she had to wait for Fenrir to contact her. She supposed it would be in the same way as last night, with a howl in the woods, calling her to him. A crackling shiver went through her at the thought as her mind drifted to what had happened afterwards. Her only problem was with how long she would have to wait. And, she grudgingly brought up, she really did want to learn how to kill as he did. As much as his body fascinated her, and what he could do to her with it, the thought of bloodshed made her nearly as happy. She had to learn. Her skills in the Dark Arts, while becoming stronger, just weren't meeting up with her brothers'. The standards her mother had set were too high, and she couldn't seem to reach them. Perhaps, she mulled, if she showed an alternative way to produce similar results, if not the same results, her mother would allow the subject to drop. Perhaps, but not bloody likely, though she might hold her peace for awhile. Especially if the Dark Lord was pleased. Delphia frowned a bit. Would he be? Or was one throat-ripping, cannibalistic werewolf enough for him, let alone of his own followers doing the same?

Noticing Katrine's stare (as she had been surreptitiously watching Delphia for the latter part of the past ten minutes) she gave the girl a little smile and a slight shrug. What was she going to say? That she was contemplating her position within the Outer Circle of the Death Eaters? Or would she mention how she would be receiving tutoring from Fenrir Greyback – oh, that was _after_ she had fucked him? Another shiver went through her at the coarse thought. It gave her a thrill thinking like that, but for some reason it just sat oddly with her. Had it really been like that? That didn't seem accurate; it was more than just what their bodies had demanded, right? Once more she fell into her mind, considering this new branch of thought. If it had been like that, would they have been able to speak as they did afterwards? To find so much casual pleasure in each others company and their revelling in their union? No, she assumed not. There had to be more. She felt as if her heart would break was there not.

"Nothing in the paper interest you?"

Katrine's dry tone snapped Delphia out of her contemplation and she looked over with a weak smile. If she kept acting like this, kept playing victim to her own thoughts, she would be raising a lot of questions.

"Nah, nothing. Just wondering . . . y'know, this whole 'Harry Potter thing'," she commented nonchalantly.

Eyes narrowing slightly, Katrine leaned in a bit. Licking her lips slowly, Delphia realised she was apprehensive. An urge to sniff the air came over her, wanting to know exactly what the other girl was feeling. The strange impulse frightened her somewhat, wondering where it had come from, why she would think like that. Thankfully the startle it had given her was enough to prevent her from ever doing such a thing. To think, a pure-blood sniffing the air like some animal.

"I dunno Delphia," Katrine murmured, eyes flitting about the room as if they were about to be set upon by unseen forces, just waiting for some sense of betrayal, "this Potter thing . . . something doesn't smell right, y'know? It's fishy."

Lifting her brows, Delphia managed a mask of incredulity. "What do you mean? He came out of the maze with a _corpse_ and claimed the Dar – You-Know-Who was back. It doesn't get any more straightforward than that."

Mulling this over for a moment, Katrine gave a weak shrug. "Something still doesn't sit right. We've torn into Dumbledore, we're disdainful of Potter whenever the chance arises; why? We do our best to discredit him but he's still a boy. How's he dangerous?"

That was one of the stupidest things Delphia had ever heard in her life. How was he dangerous? He had not only nearly destroyed the greatest wizard when he was merely an infant, but had managed to fend off two Dementors lately: perhaps Katrine had forgotten that bit? She _had_ learned about that, hadn't she? Besides, look at everything else he had done besides; Chamber of Secrets much? How about killing Professor Quirell? Not dangerous Delphia's arse; he was the second most dangerous wizard alive. Next to Dumbledore, of course. And if they could manage to get rid of both in them in one fell swoop, then all the better.

"He's attention mongering," Delphia sighed, "trying to reclaim his glory days. Get everyone scared and riled up so he can be a 'hero' once more."

Eyeing Delphia uneasily, Katrine glanced away. "What if he's right though? I know we're told he's not, but what if You-Know-Who _is_ back? Shouldn't we be preparing, just in case?"

"This is _exactly_ why the Ministry is shooting down Potter's big mouth!" Delphia hissed, "for even you are speaking of the possibility of phantom threats."

Katrine lifted her eyes warily to Delphia's and gave a heavy sigh. "I'd just like to know the truth, y'know?"

It seemed Katrine wasn't going to be a good girl and follow along like everyone else. That was unfortunate, as Delphia liked her and found her company amusing. But what could she do about this? Why wouldn't some people just do as they were told, instead of being new Harry Potters, trying to be heroes for the "good" of everyone? There were bigger things here than being lied to, than sticking it to a boy who knew too much. The Dark Lord had to be given time to build up his followers, to get a hold on society before they could all strike. That's when things would change and develop, when their world would finally be righted. Not through this bullocks of truth and honour, but through how the world really worked: subterfuge, coups and denigration.

"The Ministry," Delphia started slowly, trying to come up with something as quickly and calmly as possible, "would tell us if there was a threat. It's their job. What Potter is trying to do is create fear so we'll rely on him once more to rid us of that fear, and make him a hero again. His limelight has faded through the years and he's nothing but another Hogwarts student now. I could see how going from being the star of the wizarding world to a normal boy would be a shock, but that doesn't mean he can control us just by saying that You-Know-Who is back. The fact that he's done so many dangerous and illegal things since entering the school just goes to prove that he'd do anything to get the attention he once had back on him." At Katrine's slightly sceptical gaze, Delphia cuffed her playfully upside the head. "C'mon! We've seen the paperwork! And I'm sure you were at Hogwarts at the time of some of it. The Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, the Whomping Willow, that car that's supposedly in the Forbidden Forest that he brought to school, his entry into the Triwizard tournament: and those are only the ones I can name off the top of my head. His need to be the victim, the under-dog and the startling hero is wearing thin. It's time for him to bow out before he does damage to our world. We have to examine it for ourselves, see if it's right; and from what we've been seeing lately, it's not right. He's just . . . looking to broaden his fame." Katrine still didn't look totally convinced but Delphia decided to change tactics. She couldn't push her much more in this manner without seeming too eager to sway her.

Sitting back in her chair, Delphia gave Katrine a little shrug. What else was there to say? "If you want me to be blunt," Delphia finally murmured, "Harry Potter is an irresponsible, histrionic, narcissistic damaged brat who needs a long stay in St Mungos." Pausing, she snorted and tossed her hair as if the very idea of Harry Potter was absurd. "He's just an ignorant little churl."

Slightly taken aback by Delphia's sudden vehemence, Katrine just stared at her aghast for a moment. Not knowing if she had taken it too far or what Katrine's eventual reaction would be, Delphia kept her face completely neutral, as if to say everyone thought the same thing. Which, from what she had heard, nearly everyone _did_. Maybe Katrine just needed some reminding that she was the one on the fringe; that the general population thought exactly as Delphia did. Other than the fact that Delphia knew that Potter was right. That wasn't the point though. Making people believe what she wanted _was._

Bringing her fingers to her lips, Katrine thought long and hard. She had been hearing much of the same thing from others, and had seen it all supported in _The Daily Prophet_. For all intents and purposes, Harry Potter had gone for the loop, gone around the bend; he was a sandwich short of a picnic and a cauldron short of a potions kit. There was some niggling in the back of her mind though; could the Boy-Who-Lived really be that much of an attention whore? Grunting to herself, realising the name she had thought of him by, she pondered the fact that if he was called by such epithets, that perhaps it _had_ all gone to his head.

"If the Dark Lord is really back," Delphia murmured coyly, lifting her eyes to Katrine's puzzled ones, "then why have we seen and heard nothing? No attacks, nothing out of the ordinary, no killings or kidnappings. Not a single Death Eater, and they were his most loyal servants, weren't they? I've read the old transcripts to try and take measure of our world now to how it was; and it's _not _the same. Everything is as it has always been." So she lied about the transcripts; Katrine didn't need to know how Delphia understood Death Eater modus operandi.

Eyes widening somewhat at this seemingly off-hand statement, Katrine filed that in for further review. Could it be true that Dumbledore had finally become senile, that his favouritism of the boy was blinding him to fact? That Harry Potter was a brat, more interested in the fame he had garnered from his world than the protection he had given them as an infant? That was impossible, the boy wasn't like that. But how did Katrine know; he had been young still when she had graduated from Hogwarts and did remember some of the events that had swirled about him. Thinking back to the Ravenclaw Common Room, she could remember rolling her eyes now and then at the mention of Potter's name, wondering how such a young child, who had done something so great, could get into such scraps and into so much trouble. He should have been concentrating on his studies rather than causing amok.

"Katrine," Delphia whispered as she nearly gasped in shock, inwardly proud of her little display, "I just . . . I just thought of something . . ." She forced an embarrassed flush and ducked her head somewhat, shaking her head as if the fleeting idea was moronic, not worth mentioning. An idea had washed over her and she knew it had to be said; however, if the delivery was even somewhat off, it could totally destroy the little bit of doubt she had been building up in the other girl. Waiting for the curiously eager expression to shine on Katrine's face, then waiting for the motion to continue when it did surface, Delphia gave her an uneasy smile.

"Well," she continued, fiddling with the sleeve of her robe, "what if this whole, y'know," she gesticulated vaguely, "_Boy-Who-Lived thing_ was a fluke? That all this now is to prove to our world that he is useful and that he did do something back then, that he's as special as we all believe? But," here she looked pleading, "what if, just what if, he had nothing to do with the end of You-Know-Who? That it wasn't something special about him? Could that be what's driving him to 'prove' his worth? Because he knows its not some inherent super-magical-abilities that he has; rather something that manifested coincidentally when the . . . You-Know-Who went to kill him?"

That was something Katrine had difficult digesting, but it went through her much easier than she would have ever liked. So much of that rang true to her in its own way; in fact, she knew she had been guilty of thoughts like that herself when Potter had arrived at Hogwarts. The only claim he had was a scar; there was nothing ethereal about him, nothing . . . well, _nothing special_. He was a regular boy who caused trouble in classes, disrespected his Professors from time to time and broke rules like they didn't apply to him. All because he was "The Boy-Who-Lived". That wasn't fair, Katrine realised, her eyes darkening somewhat as they narrowed, her hand dropping from her mouth. It really wasn't fair; how could he be treated differently from the rest for something he may or may not have done? When in school, weren't they all supposed to be equal? Who was to say that he should be allowed liberties, especially when someone like he should have been reigned in tighter?

It was easy to see the cogs turning in Katrine's brain, to see her developing mistrust of Potter and what he had to say. Could dementing the minds and thoughts of others be so simple? Tell them what they had to hear in a way that would appeal to them and there you had it: another convert. Katrine was so close to ignoring the instinct in her head and joining the rest of them in denial. Though turning Katrine wasn't important, it still made Delphia feel good. It was practice and, though made no difference in the scheme of things, would make her mother proud to know that she had managed to change the mind of someone who could have managed to turn the tide against them. As there were people there to push the denial of the Dark Lord's return and add their voices to the throng, there would be people lifting their voices against their agenda, bringing wizard kind to their side to find out the truth behind Potter's claims. Another voice in the denial camp wouldn't hurt one bit. Tiny little nibbles could do more damage than one big bite. Because if a lot of people took tiny little nibbles, soon the whole thing would be gone. For every person Delphia brought to her side, to the side of the Ministry, that was yet another to turn someone else to see "the truth". And so on and so on, until everyone was blind to fact, accepting verbatim rhetoric, slander and libel as gospel, and the word of Merlin himself.

Her voice was soft, pensive when she spoke. "Do you really think so?"

Delphia nodded solemnly. "I think it's something we have to examine. For good or bad, the D – _You-Know-Who_ was very powerful. He killed a lot of people, controlled even more. Had scores of creatures at his command. How could an infant best him?" She shrugged and decided to go the "light" route. "I mean, could you see a baby killing off Dumbledore? I don't think so. There has to be more to it than some 'super special' child who never seemed all that great at Hogwarts."

Nodding slowly in return at this, Katrine continued to ponder over it. Could it be true? Was Harry Potter a fake? Were his claims really the desperate attempts to hold onto the glory that was surely slipping from him? She needed to think long and hard on this one, all this information swirling in her brain like some unprecedented fug. What was worse was that in her youth, she had sometimes been resentful of the extra attention and autonomy the boy got for some wound on his head, some legend in which the fine print couldn't (or wouldn't?) be explained; where she and the others in her House were ignored. They had brains to back up what they did, they were the brilliant ones of Hogwarts, but no one _cared_ because "wonderful" Harry Potter was suddenly there. Katrine had grown to become glad she hadn't ended up in Slytherin – they got the Harry Potter wrath the worst.

Some measure of jealousy was welling up in Katrine. She wanted to prove that there was more to life than divine providence, than luck and a stupid scar. Great things happened because people made them, not because the opposition blundered down the line. While that could happen, it was always in conjunction with immediate action and wise thoughts; never just fortune. Thinking onto the reports in the newspaper since the end of June, she realised that perhaps they did have something to them. It would require analysis and dissection to come to a point in which she felt secure and satisfied. But now, she wasn't too sure she would be happy with Dumbledore's version of events. While once he had been omnipotent and prudent, he was now feeble and improvident. How could he dare bring forth all this conjecture and fear upon their world without an iota of evidence, not a shred of proof, beyond Potter's statements? One such as he should have weighed the consequences of such an action with the knowledge that fourteen-year-old boys are wont to impress others with their prowess.

It was like a shining light beamed upon Delphia. She felt elevated and pure; it was easy enough to read the struggle and consternation on Katrine's face. Not only was she beginning to buy all of it, but she was starting to _believe_. Causing one to accept their fate was one thing, but being able to get them to think that they deserved it was quite another. She would have to tell her mother of this development. Perhaps, after all, she _could_ do her duty to the wizarding world. This had certainly been more entertaining than twisting Dolores; hopefully, the rest of her work would run along these lines.


	16. Chapter XV: Waiting and Hoping

Wow, guys. There's certainly been a bit of activity since I posted the last chapter. So I figured, why not give you all some more Fenrir to play with? DracosBaby, your questions WILL be answered through the course of the fic. But, ummm, not for quite a long time. I'm almost done OotP summer, and I'm at chapter 40. So it's gonna be awhile ; Any other questions any of you have, will also be most likely answered in the fic. So far, pretty much everything has a purpose, and I hope to keep it that way, rather than running off on superfluous tangents, something like my A/Ns XP Please review. Reviews feed my soul, and my soul feeds my fic :D

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Chapter XV: Waiting and Hoping

Rain had begun to spatter down outside the Ministry, the enchanted windows becoming somewhat dreary to reflect this state. It hadn't helped the mood in the office, but Delphia was glad for the ambiance it developed for Katrine. Her doubt had become a gnawing cynicism and her outlook on Harry Potter was a little more jaded than before. When Delphia left the office late that afternoon, she was quite happy with herself, but couldn't allow Katrine to see it. Pretending to be affected by their conversation and the weather as much as the other girl, Delphia gave her good-byes and left to Apparate home. She decided to spend some time in the gardens enjoying the freshness that had been denied them through the beginning weeks of the summer. Arriving home with a slight cracking sound, she strolled from the Apparation marker into the gardens and sat under a tree, in a thickness of brush. Stroking some dampness off the petals scattered through and around the bushes, she smiled to herself even as she knew this rain wouldn't last long. That didn't matter. She deserved this: the earth was refreshed (and though the gardens were kept-up by magic, a little rain was always good for them) and so was she and her cause.

The rain felt good.

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It certainly had felt good to feel the fresh wash sprinkling his body, watching it out in the land. But now the sun was back, the earth drying steadily until there would be naught a reminder that the sky had just spilt upon them. Rolling his shoulders, Fenrir leaned back against his den-house, gazing across the field of waving, green grass. Shaking his body in a dog-like fashion, he sighed, enjoying the sensation of his muscles, through to his bones, warming as the droplets evaporated from his tough skin. Examining his hands, he smiled a bit, turning them over and flexing his fingers into fists a few times. He felt invigorated, truly alive for the first time in . . . well, a long time. 

He couldn't get the feel of her off his flesh, her scent out of his nostrils; her whimpering moans . . . Shuddering then in memory, he shut his eyes and indulged a moment, his whole body singing with near euphoria. No one should have the effect she did on him, on any living being. However he could take some comfort in the fact that she reacted to him much the same; there was some mercy in that. He was not the only one suffering. But how could this sudden strength, this ability to take on anything (or so he felt), this sense of true immortality, be bad? The moon was handing him something more than his true form, that much he knew. He wasn't about to deny it, especially when he could revel so completely within it.

"You finally seem alive."

Slitting his eyes over in the direction the voice had come, Fenrir gave a little snort and watched Aneya's body move as she walked over, sitting beside him.

"Do I?" he rasped, smirking to himself as he stared back out at the grass. It was so green, so fresh; the sweet smell drifted about the house, mingling with the smell of dirt drying around him.

His Beta studied him, her brows arching daintily. There was an aura about him, one he used to have. It was back now, but there was something more. The changes that had been going through their Alpha were gone, replaced with a new feel of stirring power.

"Where were you last night?" she wondered softly, idly picking at a scab on her knee.

The grin that crossed his face had her even more startled. He looked almost like a boy, even with the grey hair and pointed teeth. What had he got into _this_ time? What foolish adventure had he stumbled upon and what damnable trouble had he brought on his pack just for his sense of amusement?

"I went to her," he finally grumbled, the grin fading to a happy smirk. "Like you said I should."

Aneya blinked a few times as her mind shifted, trying to remember what he was speaking of. Ah yes, the root of his unease, that's what this was all about, wasn't it?

"I take it she didn't run screaming as she tried to shoo you away," she remarked dryly, unable to comprehend anyone other than his pack accepting him near enough for conversation – her mind couldn't even begin to consider anything beyond that. He had said she was a witch, though a Death Eater, so perhaps she hadn't been quite as frightened as Aneya had been entertaining. Then she realised how stupid she was being; thinking, actually. He had been intimate with her, or at least he had claimed though Aneya knew the tendencies of men to brag (however, his frustrations did lend credence to his boast). Still, it was hard for her to understand how anyone outside their lives could accept him in such a way. Even for herself it was a frightening prospect. If he had demonstrated interest in her in that way, Aneya wasn't sure she would have accepted a place as Alpha female. Their Alpha could be much too frightening for that.

"No," he grunted, slapping her hand from her knee with a reproachful frown. Wounds didn't heal when one picked at them, no matter how minor. "In fact, she came running _towards_ me and . . ." he trailed off with another brilliant, pointy-toothed grin even as he shrugged. "She was wild," he finally said, sounding almost proud.

"Did you infect her?" Aneya demanded, immediately thinking of the pack.

His grin faded as a frown took its place. That had to be the dumbest thing he had ever heard. "I don't remember it being a full moon last night," he articulated in a slow rasp, eyes going to his elder's. "Was there something I missed?"

A flush instantly leapt to Aneya's cheeks. How stupid could she be? "Will you make her one of the pack?" she quickly amended with barely a stammer.

His frown deepened until it was a snarl. "She will be part of the pack whether I infect her or not; have I made myself clear or should I elaborate?" he spat out, relaxing once more against the wood siding of his home.

Knowing how brutal his "elaborations" could get, Aneya just ducked her head, feeling both reproved and somewhat irritated.

"You are more than clear, my Alpha," she said softly, her voice tight, having correctly interpreted him. "But I must say that I find it distasteful that you would bring a _Feral_ into our den."

The slap across her face sent her flying out onto the grass. Warm stinging pricked her cheek as surely as the tears did her eyes. Willing herself to look up at the looming figure suddenly above her, she cowered slightly, rolling over to expose her underside.

Fenrir peered down in her face, his eyes glinting malevolently. "You will not disobey me or disrespect my decisions, Aneya. If I decide I will have a Feral to mate, then I will have it. Her infection will be _our_ decision, not yours and certainly not the pack's. Their place is to obey me. Again; have I made myself clear?"

Aneya nodded meekly as she turned her face away, forcing herself from putting a hand to her aching cheek.

"Good girl," he rumbled. "Now stop arguing me and help me instead."

She nodded once more as he moved away from her, sitting back in the patch of worthless garden that was truly just soil and a few scattered weeds. He patted the dirt beside him, his expression impassive.

"Come here and sit. I need to think."

* * *

Alone in her room, Delphia sat staring at a piece of parchment she was supposed to be working on. She really didn't feel like doing anything. The sounds of her brothers bursting into yet another duel came through her closed door, the muffled sounds almost exciting her. She'd much rather be doing that, than this. No matter how badly she'd be beaten. Her whole body was invigorated and her mind was ill at rest. She didn't want to sit and be a good girl. She wanted to do something, damn it. Anything; even being hexed up by her brothers was an improvement over her current situation. Work was really grating her, making her fidget. Her foot tapped impatiently under her desk until she finally groaned and threw herself back in the chair. 

There was too much going on in her life, truly. Draping her arm across her forehead, Delphia sighed and shut her eyes. She wanted to see Fenrir again, she really did. Not only did she want to learn how to kill properly, but . . . the other thing. She felt nervous about wanting him, fought the urge to think it should have been wrong. But the image of his body, the way he had moved so frantically inside her; nothing was wrong with that. It felt too beautiful to be anything but perfection.

Leaning forward and resting her head on her arms, Delphia just shook her head. And then there was the work with Dolores, and the whole _manipulation _thing. Katrine had to be dealt with – she needed to speak to mother about the day's work. Then what about being a Death Eater? What other jobs and responsibilities came with that? Her mind was becoming boggled, and she just couldn't bury it under work anymore.

Jumping up from her desk with an impatient sound, her chair toppling back onto the thick carpet with a muffled thud, she reached into her robes and grabbed her wand. She didn't have to be working all the time; in fact, mother would be glad that her little girl was actually practicing her curses for once. Steeling herself against the impending pain, and finding that she almost didn't care, Delphia strode out of her room and followed the sounds of screams and laughter.

Down the corridor, in the massive landing that doubled as duelling stage and impromptu dance floor (usually for Jaeger and the women he brought home now and then) two men were shooting spells at each other, scowling and smirking as one missed or hit in turn. The tallest was lurking darkly about, watching the fight carefully, spitting out criticism as he felt they were warranted. He was the first to see movement out of the corner of his eye, slitting his gaze in the direction of the figure. It ducked half-way behind the corner, peering into the area almost longingly, curiously.

Jaeger smirked and nodded to himself approvingly. So little sister's foray into their world had finally given her some nerve. Surreptiously he motioned her over, eyes darting back to the duel, Makrin and Kieran both laughing now as Makrin's face exploded into one giant welt. Chuckling to himself he returned his gaze to his hesitantly approaching sister and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, ducking down to speak with her.

"What is it?" he wondered, gaze sweeping her face, trying to figure her out.

She gave him a listless shrug, her wand almost seeming to droop as much as her shoulders did. "I wanted to duel, too," she whispered back, licking her lips nervously. She looked over at her brothers. Kieran was doubled over, positively howling as Makrin tried desperately to fix his face. He had managed to make it a wonderful purple colour, but not much else. She wondered if that was an improvement over the angry red it had been a moment before, or if he actually needed some help. A heaved sigh; that would be her job, as usual. At least she was useful for something.

But Jaeger was smiling at her, nodding to himself again. He gave her a brilliant grin. "Fix up Makrin, and I'll duel you."

She quirked a brow. Well, she had figured as much on the first count. However, duelling Jaeger? She knew his penchant to cast his wand aside and go in with fists. Blinking a few times, Delphia realised then how much like her eldest sibling she could be. Perhaps learning from him would be good for her. He had the most knowledge out of the four of them and could definitely help her, but he tempered his magical abilities with physical brute force. Returning his grin, she jerked her head vehemently in affirmative and went over to her two other brothers. Makrin's face was steadily swelling and beginning to crack and bleed. He had managed to turn it orange by now and start growing a beard, but that about the limits of his self-help. Kieran was no aid as he was rolling on the floor, tears running from his eyes as he clutched his stomach. He was too much a little boy, Delphia snorted in her head, approaching Makrin. The rangy, now deformed man looked almost pleadingly at her, and more than relieved.

What curse had that been, Delphia wondered. His face was a grotesque mask, bulging as his eyes sank into their sockets, blood oozing down his inflated features. He had to be in pain; she could tell by the thinness of his lips as he pressed them together. That was his only tell. But what in Merlin's name _was_ this? Kieran was in no state to speak, and if he did, he most likely didn't know either.

"Hurry up."

Jolting out of her revere, Delphia turned her head to glare at Jaeger. "Give me a moment," she snapped back, biting her tongue at his sharp look. She had spoken out of line; she was taking too long and should have just accepted his command. Gazing back up at the now-impatient Makrin, she decided that first thing was first: take care of the colour. Concentrating, she waved her wand around his face and flicked it before his nose. It faded into the disgusting, oozing red it had been. Then she took care of the sprouting hair that had started to grow from every pore. What had Kieran stumbled into –

Oh no. Blinking, the image of a sketch burst into her vision. Her eyes scanned the air as she desperately tried to read the invisible page before her. What had it said? What was the counter curse? And how had Kieran found that book? She really had to start hiding _everything_ more carefully. Eye twitching, chest jolting, memory swam in her mind and the word screamed unbidden through her head as her wand moved in slashing, jabbing movements before her brother's face.

After a moment, the swelling faded and the cracks disappeared. Blood dried and crusted all over Makrin's features, and he looked mighty bruised. The hex was gone though, and she needed to speak to Jaeger about this one. Though he probably would have been proud of little Kieran, figuring things out on his own for once without having to run to Mommy. So again, Delphia thought she might have to bite her tongue. Peering up into Makrin's slightly yellowed face, she frowned. The book hadn't spoken of any after effects. Only clearing up the spell and curing it.

Then again, at least she had been able to do it at all. Once Makrin had failed spectacularly multiple times, Jaeger would have stepped in. When he failed, they would have gone to her. So she would have fixed it no matter what. It _could_ have been the work Makrin had tried to do himself which had exacerbated the effects, preventing Delphia from clearing it up completely. Or, and most likely, she just needed more practice.

A hand patted her shoulder almost paternally. It was how Jaeger always praised her, his eyes usually dancing as a smile toyed on his mouth. Makrin nodded to their eldest and touched his cheek deftly, giving a little wince and wry smile.

"He's getting better," he finally croaked, feeling around his bruised face.

Delphia looked up at Jaeger as his lifted a brow, highly amused. "So it would seem. The time is getting on; you and Kieran have some people to meet at the Ministry, don't you?"

Makrin nodded as he stroked his jaw, looking rather unhappy as he did so. His whole face ached. "Yeah," he finally breathed, allowing his hand to drop. "I'll get Kieran." With that, he walked over to his sobering brother and kicked him in the ribs before helping him companionably up. Brushing his youngest brother down with a snort, Makrin helped him dust himself off even as he shook his head.

Giving Jaeger a narrow-eyed look, he glanced over towards Delphia. "I see the elves haven't done all their work today."

She frowned at him and felt Jaeger's hand squeezing her shoulder in reprimand. Biting her lips, she gave Makrin a sharp nod. "So it would seem. I'll order them up here as soon as I can."

Earning a derisive snort, Makrin wrapped his arm around Kieran's shoulders, gave him an affable little pat and strode off, chatting with him. Delphia watched them go almost cautiously before tuning to look at Jaeger.

He was shaking his head and frowning. "You've been neglecting your chores. Mother won't be having that for very much longer. How difficult is it to go order the bloody house-elves around?"

Hanging her head slightly in chastisement, Delphia just nodded. "I'm sorry Jaeger. Don't tell Mother; it won't happen again."

"Alright," he grunted, shaking her slightly. "Make sure it doesn't. When we're done duelling, you're going straight to the kitchens. Clear?"

Another nod.

"Good," he sighed, pulling out his wand. "Practice only, Del. I really don't feel like fixing you up and I have to join Makrin and Kieran later so I can't look like Makrin does."

Giggling slightly Delphia smirked at him as they parted a few steps to begin their duel.

"At the very least, you have to remember to . . . _block!_" he shouted as his wand waved, pointing at her. She could see the air ripple as she cringed, ducking her head, holding out her wand. _Protego, protego, protego!_ Squeezing her eyes shut, she could only hope that her mental shouting worked, that she had managed to get up a shield in time to not receive her brother's hex. When nothing happened after a moment, she allowed herself to blink, then look around. She felt fine. Examining herself deftly, she couldn't see anything wrong.

Jaeger huffed. "You're fine, child. Perhaps if you learned to not cower and maybe even counter-attack, you would be better at this?"

Blushing at Jaegers rebuke, casting her eyes to the floor, Delphia managed to mumble an apology. He was right. But after what she had just seen from Kieran, from what she knew of her brothers' capabilities, how was she to _not_ flinch every time one of their wands waved at her? It was so inborn to just leap out of the way and start running that for her to even stand there and block had been an improvement.

"Look," he finally said after a sullen, silent moment from his sister, "I'll just pretend to cast curses at you and you block and parry as if they were real. Alright?"

Lifting her eyes to Jaeger's, Delphia stood there, confused for a moment. But that would mean he was completely defenceless, and as ruthless their upbringing, they were still siblings. And he was still the closest thing to a male head of their family they had. That meant though, that she had to obey him. Even if it could harm him.

Giving him a little shrug, Delphia thought for a moment, settling on a moderately brutal hex. Without a sound, she cast it, flourishing her wand suddenly. Jaeger managed to shield himself at the last moment, but still felt a searing pain go through his limbs. His knees buckled and he chuckled somewhat, muttering a general counter-spell. It was unfortunate that, while knowing a rather impressive number of horrific curses and hexes, she just didn't know how to use them. Too much thought and not enough action. She took too long to cast, as well.

Gently he explained this to her, telling her she wouldn't have the time to think about what to do next in a real duel. She had to be able to cast and recast without hesitation, without second thought. It had to be natural and vicious, a never-ending mental assault. He was surprised to see how eager she was for tuteledge, to understand where she had been going wrong all these years. Normally she just avoided her brothers when it came to their fights. Until she was needed for the after-effects.

It had to be the black on her inner arm, the skull and snake that wound itself so beautifully on her almost white skin. She finally had the symbol of her growing up, of her entry into the adult world. Now she knew she had to act it, and age quickly if she was to do their family proud. Coaching her step-by-step in a way he had never done, not even with their other siblings, Jaeger spent the better part of the night inducting her into the world she had just entered, struggling to show her how to brutalise with her wand. Even though, by the end of their little session, he could see the improvement, see a measure of confidence enter her movements when she went to cast, he knew why she had still nearly failed Transfiguration and DADA. Only the theory had pulled her through on those ones. Which was the pity, for her mind could hold so much and soak up the endless information and new spells he taught her.

When Delphia finally left him with a soft, "Thank you," he watched her go with a little frown. What happened when she had to kill for the Dark Lord? Once she entered a fight, especially with an Auror, she didn't have much to fall back on. Unless she bored them to death with ceaseless recitations of the spells they were using and their histories. He couldn't see her throwing herself on their mercy, either. She had too much pride for that, too much of their father in her. He just shook his head and left for the apparition point, late for his meeting and not really caring. Who'd have the gall to chastise a Sonder but a Sonder themselves?

What was mother thinking, allowing her to become a Death Eater? It would be her own death, of that he was sure. Unless some sort of black miracle happened. Besides Harry Potter randomly dropping dead, he didn't see much hope.

Delphia, on the other hand, was feeling quite elated. Never had she taken the time to really learn, to truly be tutored. It was invigorating to see what was in her mind become tangibly real. She knew Jaeger was still disappointed in her, wanting her to improve exponentially under his expert guidance, but those things just didn't happen. He had to accept that she had become better. Next time, she'd improve even more, until she was as good as her brothers . . . eventually.

Heading down to the kitchens, Delphia hoped that her mother hadn't noticed how negligent she had become with her chores. Entering the bustling work area, she passed through the knots of elves getting everything ready for the next day, ignoring the smells as best she could, and found her two elves. Commanding them upstairs to scrub everything down, she watched as they bowed and disappeared with little _pops_. Then she raided the cooler, getting herself a drink and some fruit, finding herself eyeing the slabs of raw meat. Shutting the door firmly as her face twisted in a scowl, she gulped down her butterbeer as she ate, wandering back through the prep lines.

She liked learning. No matter who taught her, she just wanted instruction, to know, to understand. There was nothing greater than deciphering the intents of others, measuring their actions, decimating them with well-timed reaction. But that took practice, coaching. Now, with this mark in her arm, she could receive all she wished.

Tossing aside her butterbeer bottle as she went to the library, she barely registered the smashing of glass as it hit the floor. An elf would clean any mess up, and as she rounded a corner, going to the double doors on the main floor of the library, a house-elf did crack into existence and deftly swept and mopped the mess.

The shelves of books opened up to her like welcoming arms, giving to her all the information she could ever hope to gleam in the world. Her eyes swept her favourite sections as she headed for her chair. She wanted to find a good book on killing and death, something that would help her, or even a Dark Arts book. Settling on a familiar text, she lifted it up and flipped through it. After a few minutes her eyes swam and she tapped the corner with her wand.

_Infamy of Deeds._ Of course she'd want this one, no matter the guise. Flipping it open, the pages parted at the wood-cut impression of Fenrir Greyback. She found herself sighing and her eyes drifted shut. Forget all this wand waving. That was good to know, something she _did_ need to learn, to achieve at some level. But this, _this_, the throat-rending, flesh supping, blood gushing _slaughter_ was what she really wanted.

Her fingers brushed the image on the page as her eyes opened once again. What made him so attractive? Perhaps it was that he didn't attack her and took the time to speak with her, or found her amusing. Even endearing. Then there was the fact that he had made her a woman, given her the greatest experience of her life. He shouldn't have been striking in any way, but she felt almost like a lost puppy, going to an Alpha for guidance, to find herself at his mercy. Absolutely tremulous in delight at his mercy.

She shivered. She had to ask her mother about learning how to kill from him. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of a way to breach the subject. Her mother had to see that it was in her best interests. Somehow.


	17. Chapter XVI: I Have a Question, Mother

Chapter XVI: I Have a Question, Mother 

The sun was bright; all the silver in Delphia's room glowed gold, casting shimmering pools of light across the walls and bed. She was slow in waking, even in the heat and dry air. There was nothing to do, except the work she had neglected the day before. Somehow it felt good. She didn't do what she was supposed to and got away with it. On the other hand, it didn't have to be done for another couple days. Dolores probably didn't even notice whether the paperwork was done or not. If she even knew what she had set out for her employees.

A sigh tumbled from her lips as she flopped over into the cooler, untouched portion of her bed. It was too large to completely sleep in, which was always nice in summer. Until she heated it up and it too became unbearable. In these moments she had always had the prospect of the Slytherin dungeons to look forward too. When it was hot, they were cool, when it was cold, they were temperate. This summer though, there was no dungeon to return to. Unless she went down into the sub-sections of the house, where her father's, and now brothers', dungeon was. The last time she had been down there was as a fresh face just finished her first year at Hogwarts. She wasn't allowed down there; it wasn't for good girls. Especially when there was blood still drying on the walls.

The thought of blood made her eyes open a crack, burning at the light until she had to squint them shut and cover her face. Memories of blood dripping down cold stone walls filled her mind. Suddenly she was hungry and she had no idea why. The thought of food began to truly rouse her and drag her from her sticky sheets. She could sleep in; she didn't have to get up. There wasn't any work today which meant she could just lie in bed and do nothing. Besides, she was never truly hungry in the mornings; she only ate because she had to. Weekends were lovely. A gnawing had begun in her stomach however, causing her to feel nearly sick. She had to eat something. Hopefully breakfast would have already been started. By the time she managed to crawl out of bed and actually dress, it should have appeared on the table.

Delphia was, surprisingly, the last to make it to the table, though her brothers had just sat down themselves. Food appeared before them and after cursory, necessary "Good mornings" to their mother, there was silence but for the scrape of silverware and male grunts that loosely translated as "pass me the kippers". Finding herself staring at the plate before her, Delphia felt self-conscious about eating. She wanted to dig in – this was a feeling she'd had before. But she couldn't. Instead, as before, she had to satisfy herself with dainty, lady-like bites until her mother's gaze finally faded from the side of her face. She didn't need expressions or words to know what she was commanded to do. Now that she was an adult (a woman, though how fully her mother _couldn't_ know), she had to act like one. Forcing as much food in her mouth as possible, as her brothers did, just wasn't acceptable any longer.

No wonder her mother was so thin. Eating as elegantly as her mother, ignoring the slobbering of the males, Delphia found herself forced to go so far as to cut her bacon with a fork and knife, popping a small sliver carefully in her mouth. Chewing it, frowning at the taste and texture, she slowed herself. Trying to figure out what was wrong, she swallowed and had another bite. The elves were overcooking the food, she could tell. Why now, when they had done everything perfectly since she was born? It still tasted good. It just wasn't right.

Glancing surreptitiously along the lengthy table, Delphia noticed everyone else was eating completely contentedly. Her mother was going through a second helping of bacon, though one of her helpings was three pieces, whereas Makrin took half the dish each time. If there had been anything wrong, Preia would have been snarling viciously, calling up her elves, demanding the issue be rectified.

Cold realisation dawned on Delphia, sending a chill through her even in the warm room. The problem wasn't the food. The problem was herself. Reaching quickly across the table, she scooped up some runny eggs and plopped them in her plate, mixing them with the bacon. Using bread, she scooped up the mix, finding the somewhat raw food a bit more satisfying combined with everything else. The unease still sat with her, making her wonder _why_ she wanted her food undercooked. She had never come across any problems with her meals at any time. Anything that fell on her plate was edible, as far as she was concerned.

So why this sudden pickiness? Perhaps a development of ones tastes just came with adulthood, though such a radical shift was hardly describable under any circumstances. Still, it was filling and satisfying to some degree. Managing to clear two plates, Delphia finally sat back, finished and confused. She tried to keep it off her features but as her brothers left and her mother didn't, she realised she hadn't succeeded.

Preia gazed at her daughter, barely registering the bewildered expression, but noticing it nonetheless. Finishing off her morning tea, she deftly set the gilded mug to the side and leaned into the table, clasping her hands before her. She continued to study her child until Delphia's head finally, slowly, turned. Her eyes met Preia's and her mother smiled faintly. Or the tight, almost feral curling of her lips was to be taken as a smile.

"Delphia," she purred, "darling, what is it? Tell Mommy what's wrong."

Her skin prickled and she wanted to cower. What machination was her mother bent on now? "I'm fine, Mother," she finally breathed, wringing her hands in her lap. "I've just been thinking," she added, knowing she had to say something or she'd get a slap.

Preia's look was sharp as she studied Delphia. "About what?" she demanded, the saccharine kindness and warmth quickly fleeing her. She didn't have the patience for the games of others, especially her children.

Shrugging, Delphia lowered her gaze somewhat. "I'm just wondering what it means to be a Death Eater. I don't know what is expected of me. I can barely curse an invalid, let alone an Auror."

Snorting at that, the sharp look became more severe. "You are not a killer. You are a thinker, which is what the Dark Lord needs at this time."

_I could be a killer. Let Fenrir teach me. _Please_ let him teach me._ _I want to feel him in me again._ She stared at her mother's throat before timidly meeting her eyes again. They were cold, fathomless depths of icy water that would allow no one, not even her own offspring, in. She felt the fear and awe wash over her until she nearly began shivering.

"Yes, Mother," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She swallowed hard, her breathing trembling as she dropped her stare to her hands. "I know, Mother. I'd just like to be taught. I want to fight for the Dark Lord, as my father did."

"Your brothers will do that for you," she snapped in return, a frown replacing the emotionless smile. "You will go further than they will; you will take your father's place in the Inner Circle. Not even Jaeger will manage that. You don't need to kill to be his loyal servant."

_But I want to._

She nodded. "Yet you're still disappointed in my skills with the Dark Arts."

A huff and a mirthless laugh. Preia sat back in her chair as she crossed her arms, looking highly, darkly amused. "Of course I am, child. But I'm trying to use what you have to our advantage. You will not be another Lucius, or Bellatrix, or your father. Not even another of your brothers. But you can be something more." She paused at that, seeming almost sour. "Jaeger told me about instructing you. Your willingness to seek him out to try and learn impressed me. At least you're putting forth an effort on your own time to improve. That, coupled with what you actually have, makes me consider the fact that you are not going to end up a failure. Or," she added, tapping her teeth together in thought, "not completely."

Hanging her head, Delphia managed to mutter ascent to her mother's words. She was wounded but only because she was right. It was only inches from her being this side of a catastrophe.

"I have done well, though, mother," she said then, daring to lift her gaze to Preia's once more. Her mother looked intrigued, though hardly believing. "The girl at work . . . she's been on Dumbledore's side, she believes Harry Potter." Delphia smiled a bit as her mother scowled deeply in distaste. She could almost see the venom oozing from her mother's mouth.

"And?" Preia spat, wishing she could tear the boy apart herself.

"And now," Delphia said smoothly, deceptively soft though her innards were roiling, "now I have her questioning that. I may even have her believing in the _Prophet_. A bit more time and she may believe in us." Ducking down slightly as she shrugged nonchalantly, Delphia added: "I know that's not important. I just thought it would help to have one more, especially one more who works for Umbridge." _And it was good practice._

Her mother was smiling again, but it was almost honest, her posture close to regal and proud. Delphia blinked at that. Was her mother actually pleased with her simple actions? It seemed so stupid to her, so simple. Katrine was a nobody, had no influence. But she _did_ work for Dolores, and Delphia could practice. Anyone would do and so much the better that it was her co-worker.

"See?" Preia murmured after a silent time, "you're a thinker. You didn't need to threaten or harm or wound to get what you wanted." She stood from the table, nodding at Delphia. "That is not to say you aren't to learn how to properly fight. You _will_ kill for the Dark Lord. You will learn everything you need to know. But, for now, you are doing well. As long as you continue working with your brother." Sweeping off, her steps almost seeming to glide her across the floor, Delphia turned in her chair to watch her mother walk off.

_Mother, I have . . . I need to know something._ She fought with herself, to dare bring up what was eating her inside. There was only one person on earth a girl should be able to go to with questions and for knowledge of this nature, yet that person was walking out the dining room doors. And would beat her if she found out the truth.

_Wait, Mother, please . . ._ She shut her eyes and willed herself to stay silent. Her mother left the room and she was alone. And she felt truly alone, her chest hollow and aching. There had to be someone she could talk to. So much was going on inside her head. Now she knew her place, somewhat, within the Death Eaters. But that wasn't enough. Confusion still ran through her brain, seized her body. How could she prove her loyalty, her mind, if she was on the fringes of the group, unable to approach the Dark Lord and speak with him? Her efforts to learn how to kill had to be doubled. She needed to show him she was worth his paying attention. Worth accepting into the Inner Circle.

Her chance to get answers to her questions had just left the room, however. And she had allowed it. Head drooping, Delphia pushed herself up from the table and strode out of the room, wondering what the heck she could do with her day. She wanted to see Fenrir again, but what she would do, and how he would react to her, was beyond her. Doubt was niggling in her mind, making her question her actions of that night. Did he really want her in that way? He had seemed to. How was it possible? They didn't even know each other.

She knew enough of him to know that her body clamoured to be touched again. No one had ever touched her intimately, not even groping at Hogwarts. She was a _Sonder_. One just didn't do that especially with her having three violent brothers. And being a Slytherin. But Fenrir touched her. He did more than touch her. He had caressed her, made her skin burn, made her body clench and throb in ways she didn't know it could. And the relief; the utter, rapturous relief he brought her.

Was it normal to feel like this? Be so confused by what one wanted but unknowing of the reality of what one could get? What if it was a one-time thing, no matter his promise? When she did see him again, could she ask him his intentions? Would she need to or would it be as plain as the ill-fitting robes he forced himself into? She clutched the doorknob as the image passed through her mind, feeling her knees weaken. He was so adorably boyish in clothes, so charmingly awkward. Then when he had nothing on . . . she shivered and leaned against the door, trying to gather her wits. It wouldn't do to go swooning around the house like this, every time he entered her thoughts.

She was too afraid of him rejecting her after having some time to think.

* * *

He was still thinking. Aneya wasn't happy with him; no, not pleased at all. She had been glad that he had mated, happy that he had found what he needed. But unhappy with it not being a fellow werewolf. What, he was supposed to start infecting Death Eaters and pure-bloods? The Ministry already hunted their kind down, trying to make them extinct. He wasn't about to add his current allies to his list of enemies. That would just be stupid.

Aneya had to accept that there would be a Feral in their den. While she accepted his words, and acquiesced to him, she didn't _agree_. That grated him. It was his decision, and apparently the moon's. No one else's. He snorted in humour at that. Delphia's as well, he assumed.

He paused and sat on the bed at that. Did she still want him? Her fervent words had been at something of a heated moment, in that perfection of bliss as they had settled, trying to breathe. And then later, as they spoke, she demanded him and told him she wanted more. What if she didn't anymore? Even if she did, how? That was his greatest question, his biggest worry. How did he get to her? The meetings, but what could they do there except look at each other and become irritated? He could keep sneaking to her home, but that risked discovery; besides that, it was weary travelling so far, even though he was in good shape and the reward was incredible. Really, it was the returning home bit that did him in. That was no fun, having to run all the way back to his den, after repeated mating. He was already exhausted, then to drive his body to such limits just to return to a cold, empty bed?

No, he knew she wanted him. He had been able to scent that on her since they had met. The why eluded him, but it thrilled him as well. She was desperate to be fucked and he was just as desperate as she. He didn't need to know why, just that it was. Besides, the way they had spoken, how he had informed her so bluntly that she belonged to him; she hadn't shirked. Instead she had been relieved, hadn't she? Did she even realise that herself? If not, he'd make her see what she needed. And he'd give it to her as much as humanly, or werewolf-ly, possible.

Chuckling to himself, Fenrir put his face in his claw-like hands and shook his head. He was being ridiculous, redundant even. This wasn't his problem. How he would get to her was. The easiest, best way to have her at his whim was to teach her. She had requested and he had promised. That was even before he had touched her. He had began to instruct her too, but that had ended up . . . Sighing as his shoulders sagged, he knew he needed an answer, and soon.

If night would just fall. He needed to see the moon, clear his mind, and howl his frustrations up at her. It seemed as one set of problems were eased, another just came to claim him. At least these issues were so much sweeter. All he needed was a way to have access to her. A pure-blood Death Eater whose mother had no qualms with beating her own children into submission, so what would she dare do to outsiders? If damnable Preia Sonder ever caught wind of what _Fenrir Greyback_ was doing to her daughter, she'd enter a murderous rage.

Both he and Delphia knew that, thankfully. At least the girl wasn't ignorant of everything.

Great, now his mind was doubly wandering. Lowering his hands and glowering at the wall, he set his mind on the most present task. Getting to Delphia. He swore he would see her soon. She had seemed pleased enough with that. Now he had to follow through, manage a way to get to her. Yes, he could go to her home, but no, he couldn't do that all the time. And yes, he did need to teach her to kill, but how to convince her mother that was the best course of action; if Delphia hadn't convinced her already. She did say she would bring it up. Something told him she hadn't. Most likely out of fear. He couldn't blame her.

Did he really have to wait for the meeting? Was that his best shot? Having others around, witnesses and some to temper Preia and give their own considerations might help. If he offered to help the bumbling girl learn to serve the Dark Lord in a way more befitting her (and getting all the side-perks he could imagine from such an arrangement), he could somehow make the others to agree and convince Preia it should be done.

Standing, Fenrir crossed his messy, dirty room and stood at the broken windowpane, staring out the upper half of the window. The bottom half had been shattered years earlier, boarded up with wood now starting to rot. Not that he cared. It was a den, not a manse. Sleeping on floors constantly was too uncomfortable though. His body was still physically human and some creature comforts were indulgences, not weakness. A kitchen had to be kept and windows had to be filled with glass or wood to keep out drafts. Even if his bed was old and starting to fall apart, it was still a bed and necessary. Besides, he was getting on in years and making his body hurt just for the sake of proving some nebulous point was idiotic.

Crossing his arms he frowned up at the sky. Night was still a ways off. He needed the moon, his true mother, to help him think. She always did. His best thinking, best ideas, always came when lazing out in her silver light. She would give him his answers. But he had a feeling, a gnawing inkling, that he wouldn't get anything at all. It seemed that the only thing he could do was wait for the next meeting. If he could last that long with just his hands, which he was starting to think impossible.

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Hey guys! Hope you liked the chapter n.n Thanks to those who review, I love you. If you also would like to be loved by someone terrible such as myself, please review and I'll love you too, with all of my black heart XD Reviews feed me. They feed my soul. Please feed my soul. And I shall continue to feed your desire for Fenrir Win-win all around.

BL


	18. Chapter XVII: Hello, Whelp

A/N: Eeee. I've been really excited about posting this chapter; I think of this one as my "crux" chapter. Perhaps you'll come to understand why. Sorry it took so long to update. My Chef went on vacation, so guess who had to run the kitchen. I've been busy. Read! Enjoy!

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Chapter XVII: Hello, _Whelp_

There were children all around. Some had her glossy brown hair, while the rest in the group that were crawling or walking around had hair of almost a sandy blonde. She found herself smiling at them, startled that she was cooking in some strange but oddly familiar kitchen. It just felt natural, right. The young ones came and went as they pleased, one or two clutching her leg now and then, wanting attention. It was only natural that she pick them up, cuddling and hugging and kissing them, making them giggle and shriek. A man entered the cluttered but clean space, approaching her. Her chest swelled as a sense of euphoria and near relief swept through her body. All she wanted was for him to touch her. Even a gentle squeeze of her arm would do. She could stand him merely brushing by her; as long as his body met hers in some fashion.

It was better than that, she realised a moment later. He bore down on her, completely ignoring the brats at his feet. His golden eyes were glinting, sultry humour touching his features. Then he was leaning over her, gripping her arms as his mouth ravished hers, pressing hungrily down until she was clutching to him to stand upright. Some of the children wrinkled their noses and made icky-faces at their parents' show of affection. Neither cared, Delphia feeling like she was soaring, never wanting him to part from her. Unfortunately he did, eventually, and he was looking down at his pups with affection even as he chuckled. Giving Delphia a burning look as he leaned over and nipped at her lower lip, he then walked off, scooping up a few squirming kids, chucking them over his shoulders.

She ached. Oh how she ached. The room came thudding down on her, crushing her completely, causing her body to sag. Where was he going? She had to find him. The sweet, silent promise that had flared in his eyes caused acute pain within her heart and belly. She just needed to search, that was all. The whole house, until she found him and could pin him down. Then she could have her way with him.

Abandoning the kitchen, leaving her brood alone to play with pots and pans as they liked (creating quite the clamour), she strode through the maze-like corridors. She didn't recognise a thing, but it was all so familiar to this mind. Stumbling, feeling weak, she just wanted to find him. It was all she could think about. Please . . . come back to me.

Delphia woke with a start and groaned pathetically, rolling over into the cooler spot in her bed. The sun blazed down on her, warming her already heated flesh. Clutching at her belly, doubling up, she rocked as she willed herself not to cry. The lingering emotion, the need, still clung to her. It felt too real; she just wanted to escape into the dream once again, to feel that bittersweetness of his presence. So close to touch, but she couldn't get to him. Oh how she longed to, she needed to feel him again.

Wanting to whine and sulk in bed, Delphia knew she couldn't. There was paperwork to be done for a certain toad. Even as she crawled out of bed and had a house-elf help her dress, the dream kept playing, more as feeling, in her mind and body. This wasn't fair. She slammed her brush down on the rich wooden vanity and scowled into the mirror. Why did she have to feel so empty, so alone, and yet so hungry? Her desire and plain need to be touched and loved tore at every inch of her until she was a frayed mess of nerves.

Managing, somehow, to down her breakfast, Delphia walked glumly out to the Apparition point to get to work. Perhaps mooning all weekend hadn't been a good idea. It had been impossible not to, though. The grass rustled softly against her shoed feet, the sound of the dry scratching and waving all around her comforting. It was familiar, made her feel alone and at peace with the world. She basked in the morning light, the dampness of dew that cooled her feet through the leather, the sounds about her. Everything had that morning freshness, the smell of drying earth coming up all around. She allowed it to waft up her body, swaying contentedly in the breathy wind, inhaling deeply to cleanse herself.

She had to learn to ground all this emotion. This need welling up within her. It just wouldn't do. She had to become strong. He wasn't some dream, he was real and he _had_ lain with her. And she would see him again. He _promised_. She wanted to stamp her foot like some spoiled brat. To that she had to admit she was. It hadn't been that long since . . . since that night. He had said soon, not very soon, not tomorrow not the weekend. Just soon. Soon could still be approaching.

Forcing everything out of her, willing herself to calm down, Delphia concentrated and Apparated, finding it more difficult this morning than normal. At least she didn't splice herself.

The day dragged on. Katrine wasn't her usual, bizarre self, instead choosing to be sulky and withdrawn. In a way, that suited Delphia, though she wouldn't have minded a bit of cheering up and something to take her mind off herself. On the other hand, this behaviour from Katrine meant that she was still debating about Potter, which did cheer Delphia up anyhow, at least marginally. A few times Katrine went to ask her a question, but seemed to think better of it, settling back into her own thoughts. Delphia would have liked the break, especially during lunch, but none was forthcoming. She had to find comfort in the fact that she was probably getting another onto her side. That was the best she could do.

Work actually got done, including the work Delphia had neglected all weekend. Both girls had piles of finished parchment on their desks when they got up to leave, Katrine smiling weakly before setting off, her eyes set, brow furrowed. Delphia forced herself to feel cheer in this, wanting to push Katrine a little further, but needing the energy to even try. Her own life had to be sorted before she could start manipulating the life of another.

Apparating back home, Delphia strolled through the bright, lush gardens, tossing a few knuts at statues now and then, ignoring the bronzed curtsies and bows. The fruity, heady smells of flowers and trees greeted her as she walked to the front door, the familiarity, once again, comforting. She didn't understand why she was so riled, but nor could she ignore it. Entering her home, she went up to her bedroom and tossed her bag by her desk, not wanting to do any of the work she brought along for the night. It wasn't like she had to do it, it was extra, but what else was there for her? To sit and pout because her dream tempted her that morning? Reminded her of what she so desperately wanted? Work was more tempting than suffering over that.

Still she found herself searching out her contraband book, staring at the picture of Fenrir for an unmeasured time. Seeing him inked on a page made it somehow less real but made her want him more. She read over his antics, then reread, though she knew it practically by heart. Now it wasn't just entertainment; now she was learning. What of this could he teach her? How would she learn to kill? What methods would they – she – use, when trained?

A small hand tugged at her robes. Delphia jumped and quickly shut the book, brushing her wand over it before tossing it away. The young female elf peered up into her face then dropped her large eyes as she scuffed her feet against the floor.

"Miss is being late for dinner soon," she squeaked. "Miss is coming with us?"

Delphia arched her brows, feeling the tremors settle a bit. So she had almost been caught. Her elf wouldn't say anything. She hadn't even said anything about the bites and scratches and she doubted the elf knew how to read. Jumping up, making the hasty casting aside of her book seem like eagerness for dinner, Delphia strode down to the kitchens, finding herself actually hungry half-way there.

The meal was its usual subdued affair, the men talking amongst themselves when their mother wasn't querying about their day. She barely acknowledged Delphia, knowing that if anything had happened, she would have gone running to her. As forks settled and aperitifs appeared, a burning, winding pain flashed up and down Delphia's arm. She immediately clapped her hand over her searing flesh, covering the mark on her inner arm, hissing in pain. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to ignore it, realising that her brothers were all wincing.

Then her eyes went wide, realising they were all being called to Him. And that meant . . . A thrill went through her. _Yes_. Her first true meeting. And he, _he_ would be there. Right? He went to all of them, he had to. She shook slightly, her gaze moving up and down the table as her brothers slowly stood. Even their mother got up, looking briefly at her daughter and smiling to herself. She saw the wide-eyed expression; she knew what the girl was thinking. The child was stunned, astonished at the reality of the situation. She was actually being called as her brothers were. Delphia was going to Him.

Without realising quite how it happened, Delphia was alone in the dining room, the table still a mess, her tiny glass of sherry still full by her plate. Nervousness seized her body. She began breathing hard, her breath trembling, as her brow etched in worry. Clutching at her chest she shut her eyes, willing the fear away, forcing herself not to suddenly burst into tears. What was she supposed to do when she got there? What did she do when she saw him?

She shuddered when hands gripped her shoulders, quelling under the grasp. But it was friendly and she opened her eyes when she realised it was Jaeger's hands. He gently helped her up out of her chair and turned her about, scanning her face with a wry smile.

"Alright child? Mother's getting your robe and mask; she actually refused a house-elf in grabbing it. She's coming back in a moment." He squeezed her shoulders again, his face fond. "You'll be fine. No one will expect anything of you and honestly, nothing's really happening. Just some talks about retrieving a weapon. None of us are involved in that until they need some muscle," he added with a grin and a fatherly wink, "and you're just expected to learn for now. I know you can manage that at least."

Her smirk was liquid hope and nerves. She parted from her eldest brother when she heard the dining room doors open. Preia came speeding into the room, thrusting a bundle of black and a mask into Delphia's arms.

"Put these on," she snapped, though without the usual harshness. "And your brothers will take you to the meeting place." She looked over to Jaeger who stood primly and politely before their mother. "Usual place?"

He nodded.

"Good." She gave both her children a searching look then turned on her heel and left. With that, Delphia felt herself being spun back about, the cloth and mask pried out of her hands. Jaeger gently lifted the robe over her head and helped her put it on, then placed the mask on her face. Smiling at his handiwork, he gave her a nod as he yanked his own mask from his robes. As he was putting it on, two identical figures burst into the room, positively bounding with energy. Delphia realised then what an image the four of them made. Three large men and one grim girl, all proud, all vicious and all images of the same menacing death. A smile curled her lips under the white mask. This felt almost good. It was right.

Jaeger led her out of the room and with the other two, took her to the Apparation point. She clutched his arm as there were two cracks then suddenly she was pinched, whirling and feeling that odd sickness. She hadn't side-by-side Apparated in quite some time and she found she didn't like trusting someone else to not splinch her.

A pop and a slight stumble later. She was standing outside a massive house, a beautiful old mansion with a rather inspired cemetery. It seemed almost Muggle around here. The house was smaller than hers by great degree, smaller than even the Malfoy's summer cottage. There was still something about this mansion, for she knew it was a mansion even if it wasn't as massive as the ones she was used to. It was the look, the build and the way it dominated everything around it. Someone great lived here.

She shuffled along with her brothers, her hands clasped before her, knuckles paler than usual under the long sleeves. Her heart was a furious tempo in her chest, feeling as if it would burst out of her body and scamper off. Stomach knotting, legs shaking, she continued along, trying her best to control her breathing. The front door opened and Jaeger pushed her through, growling at Makrin and Kieran as they shoved each other in a mock fight. They immediately stopped when older brother's eyes landed on them, standing stock-straight and entering the house.

Delphia's amazement warred ceaselessly with her fear and trepidation. This place was gorgeous. A little run down, but still with vestiges of its former sense of command and foreboding. There was a rumble of conversation deeper inside, the group of four heading towards it. The men because they knew and Delphia out of instinct. Jaeger kept his hand on the small of her back, pressing her gently forward. This was her first time out in the world and he could only imagine how frightened she was. He and their brothers had leapt at the chance to join, knowing exactly their place. Delphia was a little different and he didn't even know what to expect. No matter; she was one of them and someone would know what to do with her.

They stepped out of the dark corridor into a grand room at the end. Everyone was dressed in black robes and white masks, speaking in groups or making their rounds. Delphia stood back timidly, drawing in on herself as she studied the area. The Dark Lord wasn't in attendance yet she could see. She wondered if that was normal. Perhaps He usually made an entrance after His fellows had gathered and spoken, so He wouldn't have to deal with the tedium of socialising and small talk.

Being shoved forward by Jaeger, Delphia staggered a bit and heard the doors shut firmly behind her. He gave her a look, even through the mask, before heading off with the other two, settling in as they always did. This was their world. They belonged here. All Delphia had to do was learn and find her own niche.

She took a few, timid steps forward, her hands still demurely before her. No one paid any attention to her. Or so she thought. Her eyes swept the area frantically, not even searching for him, just anyone she could recognise. Okay . . . well, there was Snape; she'd know his firm, no nonsense lips and body language any day. She had practically lived with the man for seven years. And that – that one there was Lucius. It had to be. Even his mask seemed snobbish. The only other people who could turn sneering down ones nose into an art were Narcissa and Draco.

But there was no one else she could pick out; no one else she knew well enough to read their bodies and what little she saw. Taking another hesitant step forward, her back suddenly went stiff as the unmistakable sense of a person came up behind her. Someone was stalking her and she took a deep, shaky breath. A test? An enemy? A fool who wished to teach her a lesson for some reason?

"Hello, _whelp_."

She gasped.

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Fenrir had seen Delphia enter the room. He and a few others were engaged in discussing the prospect of killing Muggles. Apparently the Dark Lord was frowning on any outright activity – still – but it was nice to dream, and to plan the future. It was inevitable that they would start striking soon. Then she had come in; he'd know her anywhere. It had to be the eyes, or her frightened posture or even the fear that tumbled invisibly from her body. Or the fact that there were three large men flanking her. Thankfully he was already partially shadowed. Taking a few steps back, he went along the wall, stalking the girl for his amusement. He didn't know why this entertained him so, or why his blood thudded in his veins until he could practically hear his erection growing. Without the prospect of the kill at the end of pursuit, what was the point? Oh, but he still hunted flesh. 

He only wanted a taste. Coming up behind Delphia, he watched her move for a moment. She was so scared, so tense. Had no one told her what to do; of her place in things? Maybe she was still developing into what she would become; that could explain some of all this. He leered wickedly at the back of her head. Oh, but he could ease that tension right quick, couldn't he?

Robes already ill-fitting, it took quite a measure of willpower to not make it any worse. When Delphia had paused, once again, he took a few quiet steps towards her. He could scent the unease on her and the flight-or-fight instinct as she realised there was someone behind her.

He wanted to laugh. Instead he leaned over and rasped in her ear. Her reaction was near palatable, almost making him shiver and whine. She inhaled sharply, her breath catching in the back of her throat. He watched her turn and stare up into his unmasked face. Her eyes, and smell, were of mingled relief, lust and wonder. A grin slowly spread across his features and the first thing in his mind was grabbing her and hauling her off. She needed to learn how to relax. Really, he was doing it for her own good. Never mind his body begging him to just slam her against the wall and rut her madly. That sudden thought, and the image that came with it, caused him to shudder slightly as his muscles clenched.

Like her dream, he was close, so close; she could actually _touch _him. But she couldn't; she couldn't do anything. Her fingers tingled, her palms nearly ached as much as the rest of her did. She wanted nothing more than to press her body along his and just have him already. They both stood there like fools, wanting so much but able to do nothing about it. Delphia realised the tension around Fenrir was as strong as that which was coursing through herself. Oh Merlin he still wanted her, as badly as she wanted him. Her knees weakened in relief as she felt herself soften, the place between her thighs becoming warm. She wanted to throw herself in his arms even as she stood there panting, her eyes lifted to his, not wanting to break away.

He just remained there, his hands curling reflexively, knowing he had to do something, say something, soon. She seemed to be at a loss for words and while, in some way, this silent moment was torturously enjoyable, it would look odd if others started glancing in their direction.

Finally he remembered something he needed to know. Wanting to reach out, just touch her, even a light grasp on her arm would do, he withheld himself. He felt like a little boy.

"Did you speak with your Mother?"

She blinked up at him and he watched her chest heave. A smirk curled his lips as she licked hers.

"N-no. I never got the chance," she finally murmured, her head ducking even as she continued to gaze up at him. He snorted dog-like in exasperation. "I couldn't, Fenrir. I just couldn't ask her."

"So what do we do?" he rasped, eyes glinting at the way she simpered before him. He could definitely grow fond of this one. She shrugged listlessly, her eyes beginning to drift down his body, taking him all in. Her gaze shamelessly hesitated at his groin, causing him to huff with laughter, finally having his excuse to touch her. Reaching out, he cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her eyes back up to his, quirking a brow.

She blushed under the mask; he could smell it more than see it. And it wasn't truly embarrassment either. She was more shamefaced that she had been caught. That made him laugh a bit more, tossing her chin in a gentle rebuke.

"Careful, Delphia," he hissed, moving in closer to her, "you wouldn't want to get caught so early on, now would you?"

She set her jaw and gave him a surprisingly womanly look of vexed amusement. "No. Sorry. It's just . . ." she gesticulated vaguely towards him. "Your robes really don't fit well at all."

He stared at her, then slowly dropped his gaze. His eyes shut as he chuckled humourlessly. So it _had_ crept up on him. Fancy that, he hadn't even noticed. So much for his willpower.

"You're a temptation," he snarled as his eyes opened, glowering into hers. She actually looked insulted and challenged by that one.

Crossing her arms, Delphia held her ground, glowering right back. "I'm a temptation? Well, it's not my fault you can't control yourself. I don't seem to be having your problem."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "You also don't have a penis, Delphia. Or did you forget how," here he ran a claw-tipped finger down her neck as his face lowered nearer to hers, his golden eyes practically delving into her green, "_perfectly _we fit together?"

Her belly clenched as she nearly buckled and fell to the floor. Taking in a shaky breath she could feel his warmth, smell that maddening smell that was entirely _Fenrir Greyback_.

"Oh Merlin," she whimpered, backing away, having to do something, feeling his hands grip her wrists and pull her back to him.

"You're not getting away from me, whelp," he rasped, the urge to taste her, just to brush his lips against hers, almost too strong to quell. His instinct, his need; his absolute overwhelming yearning drove him onto this point, making him mad, until he almost didn't care about being caught. As it was, this was risky enough. They had already spent too much time standing together and it was becoming worse, and more obvious, by the minute.

"I don't want to get away," she breathed back, causing him to groan lowly, his eyes drifting shut. "But please . . . we're going to be caught. Please stop, Fenrir. We have to stop right now. Someone's going to see."

Damn it, but he could _smell_ her. She wanted him, she needed to mate as badly as he did. Dropping a wrist, he brought his hand up between her thighs and smirked. She whimpered and moved against his palm, trying to grind herself into him.

"You want this," he taunted, eyes opening and scanning her face. When she did nothing but whine and writhe, he jerked his hand firmly upwards, relishing her shiver, the way her eyes fluttered. "Tell me you want it."

Looking up at him and worrying her lip, Delphia finally nodded. "Yes. I want it."

He grinned at that, leaning into her to growl in her ear. "I'll teach you, whelp. I'll teach you _everything_ you'll ever need to know."

_Oh please, please, please do._ She just wanted to cling to him as she felt herself moisten, her hips rolling against the pressure of his fingers.

"Stop," he grunted, yanking his hand away, shivering at her angry growl. "We're going to get caught. You go out and mingle." He paused and glanced down then sighed, shoulders sagging. "And I'll go take care of this."

"Can't I help you with that?"

Her innocently entreating words forced him to stifle a groan. Biting his tongue, he had to try and prevent himself from becoming too wrapped up in this little world she had somehow created for them. Like that other time they had almost been caught.

"No one knows me, no one will notice," she continued, making him shiver in need and delight. She was arguing him. So she could have him, even at risk.

He looked at her with a slight frown, thinking to himself. Finally he glanced around the room, sniffed the air to see if there was danger, then took her hand. "Come," he muttered, slipping out the doors with her in tow. He hurried down the corridor and pushed open a side-door, pressing her inside as he looked up and down the area, just to make sure. Shutting the door, he turned to look in the room, and the sight that greeted him. Delphia had taken off her mask and her hands were curled in her robes. She was practically trembling before him.

He had never wanted anything so badly in his life. Grinning slowly, he walked over to her, placing his hands on the sides of her face. He bent over her and she leaned up. Then they were moaning, mouths pressing together. Delphia's arms looped around his neck as he pulled her harder against him, his erection digging against her belly. Walking her backwards, watching where they were going over her shoulder even as he massaged her tongue with his, he felt himself smirk as she tumbled slightly. The edge of a couch caught Delphia at the backs of her knees and the only thing keeping her upright was the near stranglehold she had on Fenrir.

"Lay down," he gasped, tearing away from her. "_Lay down_," he repeated, a bit harsher this time, about to lose his mind. She reluctantly let her arms drop, gingerly sitting on the couch before drawing her body up onto it. At a loss of what to do, and feeling oddly insecure, she just lay there, looking timidly to him.

_Yes, yes, yes._ He fell on her, nipping at her lips, searching out her tongue with his. The throbbing only increased, until he was painfully hard, his whole body aching for her flesh. He hastily bunched up her robes at her hips and nestled between her thighs. Her legs parted further for him, cradling him gently to her and he growled deep in his chest, devouring her lips, nearly shaking in anticipation. Any fright, any self-consciousness suddenly fled Delphia as she groaned and eagerly wrapped herself around his body. Her instinct took over and she anxiously rocked, feeling him penetrate her, filling her with eager thrusts. He was groaning with her, the couch creaking gently from their frantic movements. Legs locking around his waist, Delphia met his ecstatic plunges with a ferocity she didn't know she had. She needed this, she _wanted_ it. Mewling and thrashing, she writhed up against him as her eyes rolled back and she let out a cry. He felt too perfect sliding in her sheath, his harsh tempo flooding her trembling body with heat. It felt timeless how long she was there, pinned beneath him, shivering in ecstasy. She never wanted it to stop; he felt too perfect, even as her body clamoured for fulfillment. His rhythm changed and she moved eagerly against him, her body taking over with a sharp cry. She clung to him as he brought her up to a bucking, shaking climax, her impassioned whines all he could hear.

Her nails dug into his robes, clawing down to his lower back, fervently setting the pace now as she found herself hungry for more. He was as greedy as she, shuddering as her inner walls stroked him, clamping down wantonly. Her warmth, her cries, brought him swiftly to his peak as she froze and wailed. It didn't last long, it couldn't, but every second was utter bliss. He heard himself roaring as he filled her, felt himself collapse as his hips continued to buck. His whole body felt alight, alive, even as he just wanted to lay limply on her. After a moment they were still, gasping for air, heaving together.

Fenrir stroked her hair as he laved the side of her face, nuzzling and kissing her, able to scent them in the room. He wondered idly if he was ever going to have her in a bed. Then he wondered if he even cared. Grinning ferally against her temple, he felt her limbs droop, her muscles relaxing. He slipped from her with a contented sigh, smirking at her whine. Silently he helped her up, straightening her robes as best he could, though he wasn't quite skilled with clothing any more. She grabbed her mask and put it on, trying to brush out her hair before her hood went up. Then she was tidying up his robes, tucking him back into his clothes, completely unabashed with what they had just done. He watched her as she made him presentable in a surprisingly short amount of time. Then she grinned at him and he found himself wrapped up in a hug. It felt good having her body against his, even when they were both clothed. Grunting, he awkwardly patted her back, not quite knowing what to do.

He felt the press of her mask against his cheek, felt her lips brush his skin in an appreciative, satisfied kiss. Then she parted from him and scurried out of the room, leaving him alone. Standing there for a moment, still awash in pleasure, he finally figured it was safe to leave the room. Sighing as he picked at his robes, tugging at them as they were never really comfortable, he went into the corridor, shutting the door quietly behind him. Walking down the hall, still somewhat light-headed, he opened the doors to the meeting room and entered furtively, sticking to shadow for a bit before joining a random group. He could only hope that he didn't look as dazedly satisfied as he felt; he almost envied Delphia and her mask. She could hide much easier than he.

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Please review? Pretty please?

BL


	19. Chapter XVIII: A Teacher and a Lesson

I'm so, so, so sorry it's taken me so long to update. I've been distracted by reading, Japanese, TV and work. Lately I've been too lazy to bother turning on my computer because that means I have to wait for it to load up and . . .ohhh, pretty puppeh! See? Distracted easily, even though I remind myself every day to post the next chappie. So I finally did! Yaaay! Oh, and questions you have will be answered later in the story. Promise. Like . . . people turning into werewolves. It will happen. Now that everything is established, I've started branching out into everything else that needs to be told; I hadn't included Fenny's "special form" yet because it would have been too distracting for me at the time. So you guys won't see it for awhile, but it does exist, so please be patient and if you have comments or suggestions, please let me know. With the story no where near being finished, there's always room to add something, or to touch something up

Enjoy! R/r!

BL

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Chapter XVIII: A Teacher and a Lesson

No one noticed. A thrill of daring went through Delphia as she slowly walked around, examining the room and those that filled it. No one even looked her way. Not a single one started shouting and pointing at her, saying she had just left with Greyback; _why_ would she leave with Greyback? As the minutes passed, she calmed to a point of being almost comfortable. They had no idea what had happened down the hall, nor would they know.

How could they not know, though? Were they so oblivious to sheer joy, to complete, devastating fulfilment? She could still feel him in her, for Merlin's sake. Her very step was different, the sway of her hips. Weak legs, exhausted muscles; pure delight made so physically real. And they saw and knew nothing? Blank, drawn face or not, she could smell him on her, taste him in her mouth, feel his very presence radiating from her skin; it should have been obvious. Did no one here feel anything like this? Had they killed that off in themselves? Their ignorance made her almost giddy. How stupid could people be? She had been rapturously satisfied not even five minutes earlier. Her whole body radiated with what she had just done. It should have been so plain to see: somehow though, it wasn't.

She continued along, having no clue as to what she should be doing. A hand grabbed her and she yelped, the haze about her crashing sharply, leaving her with stark reality. Finding herself dragged into a throng of men and a woman (she could just tell), her eyes darted furtively. Perhaps someone did see. The hand patted her shoulder and she immediately recognised her brothers; or not. Who made up the rest of the group, she didn't know.

They must have noticed sister wandering idly and decided to take matters into their own hands. Jaeger's hand stayed put, shaking her a bit in a proud manner, showing her off to the others. If he only knew.

"Our little sister," he said, grinning wickedly. "She'll be the pride of our family, just you wait."

Makrin snorted in distaste as Kieran let out a giggle.

"She can't curse worth a damn," he grunted, Kieran nodding in agreement. "She can't even fight an unarmed opponent. I believe you could testify to that," he added as a sneer, looking right at Jaeger, who frowned. How, by Merlin's beard, had he found out about that? And why would he bring up their sibling's greatest fault in mixed company; it just wasn't done. Her weakness was their weakness. It was a mark on the family, as it was all their name on the line.

A bark-like rasp chilled the group, a figure as large as the brothers stepping up. "We don't all use wands, boy." Fenrir's voice was cold, full of challenge as his glinting, light brown eyes languidly made their way around the gathering. They all shifted weight restlessly, the woman and one of the others nodding at Fenrir's words; all but the siblings joined in the movement post haste. Never piss off a werewolf: rule number one. Rule number two was: never insult him. Makrin had managed both in one breath.

Frowning, Makrin turned his masked face to the looming, scowling man. "Perhaps, for those like yourself, Greyback. But we are wizards. We use wands, not our hands." He didn't (and didn't need to) add that anything but wands was uncivilised and uncouth. Something dirty and beneath all of them there. It was evident in his words.

"I was a wizard," Fenrir returned darkly on a breath. "And foolish wand waving got me nowhere. Why limit yourself, boy? Your twigs are useless." His gaze shifted, his body turning to Delphia as he examined her aloofly. "She could kill," he stated simply. She ducked her head and slowly lifted her eyes up to his, fighting the blush. He wanted to smile and shoved away the impulse. Without warning or prompting, she knew how to play the game. Her mother had taught her well in these things, it seemed. Too bad the woman hadn't taught her daughter how to keep her legs crossed; from the family's perspective, of course. He, on the other hand, delighted in that. Poor little Delphia. She learned so much, absorbed all the information she could; even that which drifted about her or was abstract, somehow dissecting it and making it tangibly useable. But no one had taught her about her body. No, that was left to him. Not that he minded; not at all. He merely found it idly fascinating that she was so shrewd and innocent at the same time.

Jaeger stepped forward as he saw Makrin about to retaliate. The idiot always went for more than he could chew, then bitched about how he was choking to death.

"Greyback, you were, and will always be, a friend of this family. Makrin's a foolish child who needs to see more of the world." He shrugged meekly, looking around to the others, making it seem he was about to confess something horrific. "I admit, I myself use my fists at times, rather than a wand."

A derisive snort from somewhere in the crowd and a mumble that had to come from Makrin or Kieran. "Yeah, but only because you're too slow on the draw."

"Del knows some good curses," Jaeger shot back, becoming angry. Why couldn't they back off for a few hours? It was bad enough they were digging into her before her first meeting had even begun, and in front of people and their peers, no less, but now they had started a fight with Fenrir Greyback?

"She just can't use them," Makrin sneered, Kieran sniggering at that.

Delphia scowled deeply, her eyes flashing, having had enough of her idiot siblings. Were they so stupid, so confident in their abilities that they'd risk a brawl when the Dark Lord had called them? Not only did that insult the Dark Lord, but they were having a go at Fenrir Greyback. Did they think they could protect themselves from him? Especially if the Dark Lord felt her brothers needed to be taught a lesson at the hands of a werewolf?

"Next time you need healing," she spat, fingers curling angrily in her robes, needing something to anchor herself, "go find someone else."

The woman's head turned, the mask betraying nothing, though her slightly cocked head showed some measure of curiosity. "You're good at healing?" she wondered softly, the muscle movements in the visible parts of her face meaning that she had arched her brows.

Hesitating, Delphia gave a sharp jerk of her head a second later. "Yes," she finally murmured.

Nodding to her, the woman's eyes swept her haughtily. "That's something useful."

She didn't know whether to be complimented or insulted. It was a measure of both, really. The bad part was that she wasn't even inherently proficient at healing either. She had been forced to learn with three older brothers around. It was years of reading, as all things were, and years more of practice. Thankfully her mother had taught her some, helped her when she was young in the times she had needed guidance. Mother didn't do those sorts of things anymore, but one treated a teenager differently than a child. And expected different things of them as well.

"We could always use a healer around after battle," Fenrir broke in gruffly, crossing his arms. "Most of these fools can't tell a counter from a cure from a cessation."

A light smile spread across Delphia's face, her posture straightening as she nearly beamed at Fenrir. She agreed completely: and from the shifting and eyes unwilling to meet anyone else's, she felt everyone else did too, and knew _their_ failing.

Kieran looked around the group with a frown. "But we're here to kill, not help anyone."

Wanting to slap his palm to his forehead, Fenrir just settled for curling his lip in distaste. Yes, and then what happened after the fight was done and people on your side needed to be patched up so they had a chance at living? Did any of these brainless pure-bloods have any sense of community and kin? They were united as Death Eaters, but more and more he was reminded of how little a pack that made them. Which was rather disgusting, as they all hunted together and were supposedly unified.

"Then the next time Makrin hexes you," Delphia sighed as she shook her head and rolled her eyes, "you can loll on the floor sobbing. Because none of us can aid you. We aren't here to help," she returned, smirking at him.

_When did she become Mother?_ was all Jaeger could think, staring blankly at the side of his sister's head.

Becoming sick of this, Fenrir considered ambling away. If they had been his pups, he would have smacked them all upside the head. They weren't, unfortunately, so he had to settle for buggering off and avoiding this completely. No wonder Delphia's skills were somewhat stunted; other than those on her back. Merlin she was good at that. But with all this bickering and "boys will be boys" shite, it didn't take much to realise why she had little confidence in her magic. He would bet a sizable sum, if he had money, that her brothers were at least partially the cause for her inability to work curses against them. And they didn't even realise it. He could one up them then. Not only prove that she was useful, and better than them, but that she could _thrive_ when taught a way to kill that appealed to her. Give her another avenue to prove her worth, one that hadn't already been destroyed years ago.

"I can teach her to kill," he finally grunted, looking around the gathering, spotting unease and aversion, smelling it in the air.

Jaeger paused at that. Scratching at the side of his mask, he gave a little frown of thought. Father had always respected Fenrir's brutality. He remembered those days. Of his father's delighted recitations to mother when he came home, still fresh and filled with aftermath. During these ramblings, he knew that his eldest was eavesdropping, absorbing every word and image. He allowed him to hear what went on in their world; Jaeger had known that but couldn't stop the habit of hiding outside the door. Mother might not have approved. It had always thrilled him to know that father hunted with the most vicious of Death Eaters and listened eagerly to every tale of slaughter and inhuman act as if they were the blessed words of saints. So he knew that while Father wouldn't exactly approve of the offer, he wouldn't have said no either. He would step cautiously but never, _ever_ would he deny his baby girl a thing in the world. She had been his pride, and Jaeger had learned that one from him also. But by being his pride, he would have protected her more fiercely and kept her from harm as much as he possibly could.

However, learning how to kill in some fashion, especially since she was lacking in that department with a wand, would help to protect her. Father hadn't ever been harmed by Greyback and he had never said anything bad about the man – werewolf – once. Mother might have scoffed at times and called him a beastly half-breed undeserving of human form, but that was mother. And even she had to admit to Greyback's brutal efficiency. If the Dark Lord wanted someone coerced, punished or dead, Greyback always did it gladly and did it right.

"I don't know about that, Greyback," Jaeger finally said, pursing his mouth somewhat as he lingered on the thought. What would be best for Delphia?

The too-large, rangy man shrugged. "Alright, she can make her place as fodder. Your father would have wanted it," he added with a mocking, pointy-toothed grin, glowering over at Jaeger, instinctively cutting right to the core of the matter.

Merlin's beard. Damn that man-beast. He had him, he truly did. Because Greyback knew father as well as, and probably better than, his own children had. The last thing father had wanted for any of them was to be weak and unable to do anything in the world. Jaeger knew he had failed in that department, not having bothered with Delphia, mostly ignoring her unless it suited him not to. She was his sister, and he had tried to care for her as a father and brother, but she was always at Hogwarts. How could he have had control over her proper education? Was it really his fault?

If it wasn't, would he even be questioning himself?

Delphia's timid voice jarred him out of his reverie and left him blinking in shock.

"I'd like to learn," she whispered, clutching her hands before her. "Please? I don't want to be useless and inept. There's no harm in it, is there?"

_Except to others_, Jaeger thought wryly, smirking at her though she didn't know why.

"Alright," he finally bit off, knowing he had given in, just like father would have. He determined then what father's weakness for Delphia had been, other than her being his little girl. Once she turned those doe-eyes on and gave a little pout, she could have anything she wanted. "I'll give my consent, but I'll ask the Dark Lord if He wants a Death Eater taking tutelage from His werewolf ally before she does anything."

Fenrir snickered, his eyes shining as humourlessly as his expression. "You won't recognise her when I'm through," he rasped, grinning as Delphia wrung her hands together, biting her lip as the blush finally touched her. He was glad for the startled, challenging look on Jaeger's face, knowing the man thought the grin for himself. All the better for it. He hadn't been able to stop himself from reacting to her this time.

"My friends."

The soft hiss filled the room and all conversation stopped abruptly, silence filling the nearly cavernous space. Bodies turned and immediately knelt their submission, almost completely in unison. The only one that didn't drop to the floor was Fenrir. He stood there arms still crossed and gave a nod of respect to the Dark Lord. They were allies. Fenrir would truly serve no master but himself. The Dark Lord understood this and accepted Greyback's terms. It was better to have him with you, than against you. Especially with his array of skills and a small but fierce army, there for the Dark Lord's taking.

When the Dark Lord took His seat, Wormtail scuttling about Him to make sure everything was perfectly arranged and sorted, the pudgy man finally knelt. All went in turn to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord's robes, muttering their subservience. Delphia went after Jaeger, feeling him prod her, holding Makrin back with a warning glare. She approached and felt her Lord's warm gaze flicker over her, recognising her as His newest to the fold. She kissed the clean hem, finding herself wondering if it was a house-elf or Wormtail who did all His chores. Then she crawled backwards, not daring to look Him in the eye. She wanted to, wanted to taste what He had shown her before. Needed to see herself as powerful, had to know what He could give her. All that was in her mind, however, and she could revisit any time she wished. She wasn't about to lift her head in what could be taken as defiance or disobedience, especially not in this moment.

Sticking with her brothers as they all continued to kneel, the ritual was finally over with the Inner Circle finishing up last. The number was conspicuously small and no one was there to represent her father. She could remedy that one in time. Not only would she prove herself, but she would do better than anyone ever expected. The Inner Circle gathered around their Lord and spoke with Him for some time as everyone else spoke together, all business now. Delphia felt rather left out, not having any idea of what was going on even as her brothers seemed to take lead in the discussion. Some were called over to the Dark Lord after a time, Jaeger, Makrin and Kieran all going over together when they were summoned as one force. She wondered what they were up to. What did the Dark Lord want with them?

It was obvious most of them were kept out of the loop, only brought forth to do a job when their skills required it. Everything seemed to be need-to-know basis for the time being. Even Delphia could gather that much. That was why she was shocked, nearly rooted to the spot, when she was waved forth to enter His company. She was pushed gently forward by a claw-like hand and she stumbled forth, hurriedly making her way to the Dark Lord, not wishing for Him to wait on someone so insignificant. When Fenrir was then called to approach, Jaeger still standing with the Dark Lord and _speaking_ with Him, she understood a bit better. Her brother hadn't been lying about talking to Him; he seemed to take this lesson development most seriously.

When she approached, she knelt again, bowing to Him, nearly prostrating herself. The Dark Lord was amused, allowing her to rise with a gentle hand gesture, His thin mouth turning into what passed as a smile. She dared to look in His snake-like face, smiling back. His red slitted eyes scanned hers and she allowed it. There was no other recourse and besides, she had nothing to hide from Him. At least, she didn't think she did. She had nothing but respect and awe and some fear of Him, everything she should. Her upbringing had made her His loyal servant. She would kill for Him; she wanted to kill for Him. That desire began burning in her until it was all He could see.

He continued to smile, His gaze flickering to the figure that came up behind Delphia, looking rather calm and uncaring.

"Fenrir," he began congenially, His voice surprisingly high, "I hear you've asked to take one of mine under your wing."

The werewolf grunted as he nodded, eyes narrowing somewhat. "The Sonders seem to have issue with their sister's inability to kill with a wand. I offered to fix that."

The Dark Lord almost seemed to laugh. "But you prefer not to use a wand."

A dark, leering grin passed Fenrir's face. "But I kill," he rasped, the Dark Lord smirking at that.

"Yes, you do. Jaeger has confided that his sister's cursing skills are less than satisfactory; although he is doing his best to help her." With that, He gave her a little, pitying frown. "But I have seen blood in her, a desire to slaughter en mass. To cause pain and suffering, revel in the kill in a way that would be difficult with a wand."

Delphia let her head drop at that, ashamed. Was He so disappointed in her? Then why had He given her sights of her conquests and victories?

"I can teach her to kill; to really kill," Fenrir returned, his voice gravely. "She should be able to use what she has. Lord," he tacked on to show his respect in an attempt to sway the mostly-creature, barely-man to his side.

Thinking for a long moment, His eyes flitting from Jaeger to Fenrir to Delphia a few times, the Dark Lord eventually nodded. "I will not deny one of my own to prove themselves. A meaningless Muggle, Greyback. We cannot have the Ministry breathing down our necks just yet. A random animal attack, perhaps? Murder for profit? Prove her skills to me, prove she should be taught in such a way, and I will allow it." He looked the werewolf over. "But you know your punishment if –"

Fenrir rudely interrupted Him, not caring about any recourse, which of course, there would be none. "I will not turn her," he snapped. "I am not a fool."

The Dark Lord nodded at that, lifting a brow. "So that we are clear, Greyback. Just so we are clear. Tonight you will hunt. I want results by the morrow. If there are none, you will have nothing to do with furthering her. Jaeger will take charge of that. Am _I _clear?"

Huffing, Fenrir nodded. "Perfectly, Lord. A corpse by tomorrow. No Ministry."

A thin-lipped, rather frightening smile. "Good. Go," he commanded lowly then, waving them away. Delphia bowed again as Fenrir just nodded. They walked away, silent, heading past the group of Death Eaters huddled together so they could speak. Now they could talk in private without anyone questioning why. Besides, it truly was legitimate business.

Sighing when they were safely alone, Delphia looked up at Fenrir, wanting to take her mask off but not willing to risk such a faux pas. He arched his brows at her, his arms crossing once again so he could do something other than touch her.

"Alright," she finally said, "so you can teach me now." Her shoulders sagged. "When Mother finds out, I'm going to get a beating."

Scowling as he shook his head, his tangled hair moving as mostly one mass, Fenrir gave her a look. "You shouldn't allow that, whelp. Besides, Jaeger's the one who allowed it and the Dark Lord enforced it. So if anyone's going to be beaten, it's them."

"But I'm most convenient," Delphia rebuffed with a shrug.

Studying her, he gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile. "We'll figure that one out when, _if_, it happens. As for now, we have one night to find a Muggle. And you have to kill him. Tight constraints, but I understand the Dark Lord's hesitance to allow this."

Quirking a brow, Delphia gave him an incredulous look, then realised he couldn't really see it. "Oh really? You understand?"

Kicking at the floor, it was Fenrir's turn to shrug. "I do, but I don't like it. One of his Death Eaters killing like one of my pack? Unless you have a natural skill for it, I doubt he wants it fostered. Anything but pure-blood, magical killings are not to his taste, unless it will serve him best."

Reaching over, Delphia put her hand on one of his crossed arms, squeezing gently. "I won't let you down, Fenrir. I promise."

He smiled honestly at that, giving her another stare, though this one was burningly sultry. "Shouldn't it be the Dark Lord you won't let down?"

Biting her lip and withdrawing sheepishly she cast him a look. "You know what I mean."

Chuckling at her as he chucked her chin, he smirked fondly. "That I do, whelp."

For once it wasn't the biting insult. She felt herself weaken at the way he had said it, realising it was almost an endearment from him.

"Fenrir," she breathed, gazing up at him, liking the roughness of his gentle touch, "people will look at us."

"Only if I kiss you," he whispered throatily back, looming over her.

"Will you?"

He looked startled at that, nearly dropping his hand. "Will I what?"

A guilty, indulgent smile crossed her features, mostly hidden by the mask, but still there. "Kiss me?"

Laughing softly in a dog-like pant, he shook his head in disbelief. "Later. When there aren't others around." Moving into her, pressing his body against hers, he ducked down so their lips were barely apart. "And I'll do much more than kiss you, whelp."

She wanted to clutch him, to force her mouth to his. Her belly was a warm knot as he stared down at her, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her jaw line. Chest clenching, she forced herself backwards before she did anything stupid.

"Please?" she whimpered, unable to take her hands off his biceps.

He laughed at her again, his eyes dancing fiendishly. "I promise."

Wanting to squeal happily Delphia settled on a relieved grin. "Good. So . . . about you teaching me?"

Removing himself with some effort from her, he gave her a nod. "Jaeger will have to explain to your mother why you aren't home with your brothers. As for us, you do still have . . . have the dagger I gave you?" His voice seemed to catch, but he caught himself quickly, grasping onto her wrist, unable to help himself.

She nodded. "Yes. I always have it on me." Giggling at his pleased, touched whine, she smiled coyly. "You already taught me some before. Is that all I'll need for tonight?"

He snorted at that, eyes raking her masked face. "If you can handle using what I taught you on a real victim, then yes. For now that will do. Once you show yourself as adept at more than laying on your back," for that he got a playful smack, "I'll show you more." He rubbed his arm.

"I want to see _everything_," she breathed, stepping into him. His hand went to her shoulder and squeezed gently before stroking the side of her neck in a soft caress. He couldn't help the chill that went down his spine, or the longing that filled him at her words, knowing exactly what she meant.

"You will."


	20. Chapter XIX: Out Hunting

Wooo . . . Murry Xmas and Happee New Year. All that good stuff. I got a new computer. Yay me. So anyhoo, because I love all you wonderful readers (and reviewers, more love to my reviewers, so if you want more love . . . XD) here is another chapter. I kept meaning to post this, but once again . . . well, I'm lazy. Sorry .. But now I don't have to wait forever for my computer to start up, so I should post more often, but I have to get back to writing, heh. And thanks to clusterlizard1 for the comments . Those are things that I've developed long ago, but will never really get into in the story. It's more information for me to have so I can write. But here are the answers: according to canon (through Lupin), werewolves are individuals, loners and don't breed. That makes me wonder why Hermione can howl like a female werewolf to get him to bugger off?? That's just a little question of mine: the real point is that Fenrir isn't a normal werewolf. Yes, I've set precedent in the fic about previous werewolves that lead up to Fenrir that have some primative pack-like existence, but those are really just gravy/icing. Which ever you prefer. They were added for description, but Fenrir would be the same without them. Because he raises children to turn against their own kind, even their own families. If he's turning kids and raising them, that's a pack. Not to mention a single, violent male (no matter how intelligent), able to raise kids well enough to turn them to his way of thinking? Uhhh, not gonna happen? He needs others to help him out, so I've fleshed it out, probably more than it needs to be, for the fun of it. Furthermore, he is also able to rally other werewolves to his cause. If he isn't used to dealing with a pack, then this would be a lot tougher. Next explanation: the worship of the moon. Well, the title should give it away :P but it's not actual worship. Or, it wasn't at first. The moon is what transforms him to his "perfect" state. It's developed in his mind, over the decades, to the point where the moon is the symbol of this perfection and he begins to personify it as something sentient, mostly to help his own mind, because psychopathic or not, everyone needs a mommy. And having been a rather smart student in his youth, I have no doubt he would have read, at least in passing, something about UK history and ancient worship. That could seed his brain with an easier transition from "moon" to "moon-mother-being". Anyway, those were just my thoughts on why I did these things. I tried to keep the explanations as short as possible, because I could probably spend hours explaining the nuances XP

Enjoy! Review!

BL

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Chapter XIX: Out Hunting 

The meeting was almost over, their business done, and now it was time to go. Making their way to the Dark Lord, Delphia and Fenrir bid their farewell. She knelt before him, kissing the hem of his robes. Fenrir has tagged along mostly for her, waiting impatiently for her to cease her grovelling. It was starting to get on his nerves. If the damnable woman didn't start getting some backbone soon, he'd . . . he'd what? Beat it into her? Like her mother did? Scream at her and belittle her like her brothers?

No, he'd touch her. Then he would lay her down in his bed, sprawl her out beneath him and show her what she was worth. He had to smile at that. Age was starting to give him some measure of sentimentality; he was hard-pressed to figure out whether he liked it or not. It certainly felt nice in a way, nourishingly sweet and comforting. The feeling also brought some discomposure as well, as he wasn't used to it. When she finally stood, he gave her a teasing huff of exasperation, receiving a pouting glower in return. They left together, barely anyone noticing. If they did, they didn't really care as the Dark Lord had obviously approved of whatever they were doing.

Exiting the mansion, Delphia was at last able to tear off her suffocating mask, rubbing away the sweat with her sleeves. Her first thought was that she would break out like she hadn't since fifth year at Hogwarts. The next one was of how confining and itchy it was to wear that thing for so long, especially since she had never had to cover her face like that before. Fenrir was lucky; he didn't have to hide and only wore robes because he absolutely had to. She almost giggled; she could just imagine him showing up at a meeting stark naked and completely indignant at the stares he would get.

They stood out on the lawn for a moment, the faint silver moonlight casting brightly enough for them to see by. The grass was as still as the air, their footprints a visible path from the walkway leading to the mansion's front door. Delphia's boots were a bit damp, but because of the dry spell, not as damp as they should have been. Twilight shift from day to night always brought moisture. It seemed the earth was craving it, as there was next to none left.

Brushing the grass with the sole of her boot, her eyes drifted and then she frowned, realising something for the first time.

"Don't you wear shoes?" she blurted, eyes darting to Fenrir's as he gave her a quelling stare.

"I barely wear robes, Delphia," he retorted sternly. "Why the bloody hell would I wear _shoes_?"

"I know you don't like wearing robes," she said as she blushed deeply enough for it to be visible in the ambient light. "You're always so eager to get out of them."

He had to laugh at that, shaking his head woefully. "You haven't known me long enough to make assumptions, whelp."

She continued to make shapes in the dark lawn. "Well, I will know you, won't I? Besides, everyone knows you go around naked."

He grunted, tipping her face up so she'd look at him again. "What does that have to do with shoes?"

Laughing softly, she shrugged a bit. "You just might find it more comfortable when you're walking around on rough terrain, and in general. That's all."

Casting his eyes heavenward, he wondered why he had landed this one. There had to be simpler, more compliant women out there. But then they'd bore him, wouldn't they? Her gentle challenges kept him on his toes and endlessly entertained. He liked that. He really did. For her sake, he hoped he remembered that when she really grated him and got on his nerves. One day it would happen; you didn't need to be a diviner to see it coming.

"Delphia, I go around naked all the time – completely naked. Can we drop this?" he growled, his tone final.

Frowning, she eventually nodded. "Fine. Be difficult. I'm just trying to help."

"I appreciate it," he rasped dryly, getting a giggle in return.

"Alright; Merlin, Fenrir. You are difficult sometimes."

He heaved a sigh. Pot calling kettle? "But you don't know me yet."

"I know you enough," she breathed, staring up at him, the mood radically shifting between them. So much so that it unbalanced him and put him a tad on edge. Even so, he found himself returning the stare, finally having to cast his gaze away with a snort.

"We have to go," he grunted. "We don't have much time. The moon is already up and we have until dawn. At best, that gives us eight hours; and I'm being generous."

Smirking demurely and stepping up to him, Delphia ran her hand down his arm, feeling his shiver, delighting in it. "Are you always so generous?" she wondered huskily. "Fenrir?" she finished on a sultry hiss.

She was purposefully trying to arouse him; that much he knew. And it was working. Unfortunately they really did have work to do, or he would jeopardise his greatest excuse to be around her. He wasn't about to risk his chance at a true mate, even if she was an insufferable pure-blooded witch. Who adored him far too much.

"Delphia," he rasped, plucking her hand from off his person and dropping it, "wait until after. Unless you're trying to stall. If you can't kill," he went on off-handedly, "I'll accept that, as long as you just tell me. I don't want to waste my time, and can figure out another way to have your body at my beck and call."

Rage flooded her as he spoke, her anger increasing with his every word. How dare he? The stupid mutt was daring to question her resolve, her intent? Who was he to say such things? She was a _Sonder_. None of them ever shirked from blood. Especially herself. Or so she hoped. And to make it seem like he was only doing this to have her at his whim? Even as heat spread through her at the thought of lying tangled in his limbs, she still felt bitter at it. She was more than his toy.

Fenrir sniffed the air, almost able to taste the sudden flare of fury. He grinned at her, getting exactly the reaction he had been hoping for. Indignant ire. So there was more passion in her veins than just spreading her legs. Excellent; perhaps she would prove to be a good student. She had done fine in the theoretical, when he had taught her the movements, how to strike and kill. The actual kill though was completely different. In the end, she might have what it took to get the job done. Perhaps even revel in it.

"I'll have your flesh tonight," he growled, petting her arms as he pulled her in closer to him. "But for now, we share in the hunt."

Her eyes were wide as she stared at him. Then she nodded vigorously. "Okay," she squeaked, suddenly looking embarrassed at the sound of her voice. He just rumbled his laugh, smirking at her before licking the side of her face. She giggled and tried to shove him away, but he just latched on, attacking her neck and ear. Wriggling against him, she panted and moaned even as she tried to get away. Was she really trying to escape him, or putting up some struggle for posterity? Even she couldn't figure it out, moving into his touch, the feel of his tongue and lips. It was odd, very odd, being licked by another person. But his moist tongue felt so nice, his saliva cooling along her skin even in the warm night's air.

Smirking as her hips writhed against his, he set her back at arm's length, eyes shining merrily.

"I'm going to have fun with you whelp. Just you wait." Grabbing at her robes, he fumbled under them, listening to her hopeful whimpers. He was only going for her dagger, but he did enjoy teasing her. His fingers tripped over the leather thong around her thigh and stroked her silken flesh for a moment. He gave himself a minute to bask in her trembling, the way she clutched at him. Then he pulled away, the dagger triumphantly displayed in his hand, his expression teasing.

She huffed, crossing her arms with a scowl. Somehow she knew she had lost, without even knowing there was a game and having no inkling of the rules. He grinned a pointy grin and flipped the blade a few times before handing it off to her.

"You're going to need this," he informed her. Now he just needed to think of where they could hunt. Somewhere out of the way, of course. Preferably no where near any Death Eaters, especially the Riddle house. His mind drifted and he found himself frowning as he pondered. An animal attack wouldn't work if Delphia was doing the killing. He could pull it off easily enough as he had before. His other option was a murder. Then they could steal whatever was in the victim's house. Food was always a good score, and Delphia could take the money, ounces or whatever it was called, to Gringotts to have it exchanged for proper gold. He didn't need it but he doubted she'd say no to galleons.

Where could a murder take place that wouldn't absolutely astound everyone living near-by? A small town would look into it, frantic that someone had died in their midst. Large cities, on the other hand, dealt with these sorts of thing more regularly.

"Come here," he finally rumbled, drawing her closer to him. "Hold onto me," he added, taking a moment to bask in the feel of her arms encircling his torso. Damn it she felt good against him. She was soft and curvy in all the right places. Forcing his mind to other things, making himself concentrate even as Delphia's head rested against his chest, he thought of London. A street in London. It didn't matter where they went; they could figure out exactly who to kill when they were there.

Apparating them with a crack, just about the only wizarding skill he had held onto, he was happy to realise they hadn't splinched when the squeezing, suffocating sensation died and their feet were planted firmly on artificial ground. Of course, he wasn't going to _tell_ Delphia that he hadn't side-by-side Apparated since he was about seventeen, definitely no later than twenty. Not with the way she was looking at him right now. Smirking at her as he looked up and down the alleyway, he crept over to the gash of light that beckoned them to the street. Dragging Delphia with him, he glanced about, frowning at the fact that he had managed to get them into a still busy area with late-night shops. Didn't these people ever sleep? How was he supposed to creep out of here, let alone kill one of them, if they weren't in their homes?

"Fenrir?" she whispered, tugging on his arm when she noticed his expression. "What is it?"

He grunted and hushed her with a gesture, still peeking around. Ducking back into the darkness with her, he shook his head. "We landed in a bad spot. Let's check the other end of the alley; perhaps we'll have better luck there."

Nodding her agreement, keeping her mouth wisely shut, Delphia just held his hand as he brought them through the dark. Stepping around trash bins and a dumpster and a tramp or two, they met with the back of a large building. The alley branched off left and right, disappearing into darkness, dim lights barely illuminating anything in the distance. After a moment, Fenrir led them to the right, finally emerging onto a nearly deserted street. This one also had shops, though most were now closed for the evening. Gripping her to him, he studied the figures walking away from them in the distance. No one was watching. In the end, it didn't matter if they were seen by one or two people. They'd just wonder who the freaks were.

London had Muggle freaks, didn't it? Every city had oddballs. He counted on that because he really had no choice. Alright, so he made a slight miscalculation. He could admit that to himself. Dodging across the street, yanking Delphia along with him, he brought them to another darkened alley and paused for a moment, sniffing the air. Nothing. Well, this was a little adventure, wasn't it?

Peering back out into the street filled with those fireless lanterns on high poles, Fenrir gave the area another look. A pub door burst open and he could hear yelling and angry shouts. Delphia's grip tightened in his hand and he squeezed back, silently shushing her. He sniffed the air once more. Definitely anger . . . irritation and of course, plenty of alcohol. It was a sweet, inviting scent, the telltale sign of an easy mark. The drunk that had been tossed out screamed back at the men in the doorway of the pub, flashing them obscene gestures as just as many tumbled from his lips. One of the sober, or at least more sober, men went over and kicked the drunk in the arse, telling him to move on. Spitting on the ground, the drunk man did just that, muttering darkly to himself.

As the man passed the alley Fenrir and Delphia were hiding in, Fenrir grabbed a small chunk of crumbled masonry from the ground. Weighing it momentarily in his free hand, Delphia completely confused, he swiftly hurled it towards the pub. The man, who had tossed the drunk out and also kicked him, was suddenly knocked in the head as he was going back in the door. Letting out a cry as Fenrir ducked back into the shadows, the man whipped about and saw no one.

"That sonova," he snapped, rubbing the back of his head, feeling the sticky warmth of blood. "'E just threw somethin' at me!"

The man just inside the door snorted and rolled his eyes, jerking his thumb towards the empty street.

"He must have gone around a corner. Go teach him a lesson."

"Will do," he growled, heading in the direction of the projectile. Fenrir's hand left Delphia's as he got ready. When the man passed them, he pounced and clamped a hand over the stunned victim's mouth. Not exactly what he had been planning for the night, he thought as he pressed the poor bugger against the wall, grinning into his face, but it would do. No food, no money, but at least the suspicion would be on the other guy for awhile.

"Delphia," he hissed, turning his head as the man tried to lash out. Fenrir just grunted as the toe of a boot hit his shin. His muscles flexed and he drove the man harder against the wall, wanting to hurt him as he lifted him higher. But he couldn't; Delphia had to learn to kill completely conscious prey who knew the end was coming. Rendering him unconscious, though he could do it to make it easier on everyone involved, didn't make for a good enough test. More than skill was being demonstrated this night; she had to have the tenacity to do it too.

Staring at the struggling, frightened man, then over at Fenrir, Delphia hesitated. She was suddenly very aware of the dagger in her hand, of a sudden wash of fear. Nervously she breathed in, realising she could _smell_ their victim's fright. He hadn't even pissed himself or anything and she could smell it. Curious about that, she stepped forward, wondering what kind of image the pair of them created. Fenrir was a sight no matter what. His robes were too tight, clinging to every nuance of his rangy body, threatening to split and tear at any moment. She, on the other hand, was almost sophisticated looking, even pretty and innocent. The juxtaposition alone had to be confusing the man.

She lifted the dagger, hesitating once more.

Fenrir snorted in irritation. "Just stab him already."

The man shrieked, muffled by Fenrir's palm, his eyes going wide. His struggles renewed as cold dread washed through him. He tried screaming, tried biting at the skin against his mouth. Flailing his limbs he managed a few solid kicks. Fenrir lost some of his grip, wincing in pain. He barely moved out of the way as a knee went into his thigh, scarcely missing his groin. That wouldn't have been good. He would have definitely lost the man then, and even now he was starting to lose the struggle. His position was too awkward as he tried to avoid blows to his person, attempting to dodge back and forth with his arms still held out, holding the man a good foot above the ground. This wasn't nearly as easy as he had first thought. If Delphia would just stop stalling!

"Kill him!" he rasped his voice almost high pitched, pain flickering randomly across his features, then settling into a grimace. The man's mouth slipped from his grasp and blunt teeth sank into his finger. He bit back the howl, the urge to viciously bash the man's skull in against the wall.

"You're in the way!" Delphia returned frantically, upset that Fenrir was being hurt and mad that this wasn't as simple as she had imagined it would be. Yes, she wanted blood, yes, she thought she could kill. But . . . this was an actual person, fighting for their life. It was so different being here, seeing this, having to do something. Daydreaming about her might was simpler.

Biting down harder, the man tore Fenrir's flesh, snarling as he managed to wedge his leg between their bodies. Pushing as hard as he could, groaning with effort, he broadened the space between them. He couldn't believe what he was seeing and smelling. His attacker had pointed teeth and reeked like an animal; he looked like one too. This man – though monster was more apt– had to be the most vicious thing he had ever seen, and _he_ worked in a bloody pub. Not only that, but this guy was trying to get some poor girl to do his dirty work for him. Thankfully she wasn't too keen on this activity. If she was, she would have gutted him already. From the wild look in his attacker's eyes, he knew that if it was up to him, he'd be on the ground in a spreading puddle of his own warm blood.

This was too much. Fenrir couldn't hold the man up in this position any longer.

"Delphia! Do it already! Damn it whelp, just kill him!" As he finished speaking he began yelping as a foot finally came up between his legs. What he feared happened; his grip slackened then was completely gone as he tried to keep himself from falling to the ground.

Delphia watched Fenrir drop to his knees, whimpering as he shuddered in pain. Angry tears pricked her eyes as she stared at the now free man. He opened his mouth to scream, filling his lungs with air. She snarled and lunged, doing the first thing that came to mind. He couldn't cry out, he couldn't attract attention. Help was the last thing coming to him. Biting back her screech of rage, she plunged the dagger into his throat. Almost too easily the blade slipped through soft flesh, sinking in until the tip hit bone, shuddering to a stop. Delphia's arm jerked a bit from momentum and tensed there, hovering at the ready. Instead of screaming the man found himself gurgling and choking on his own blood. Pain coursed through him as a rattling breath filled his lungs, blood entering them with the air. His breathing was shaky as he stared at Delphia in disbelief.

Her hand shook, but she couldn't let go of her blade. This was what she had always wanted. Wasn't it? Blood oozed from his throat and spurted out of his mouth, hitting Delphia in the face. She shut her eyes as the rapidly cooling blood spattered her cheeks, wrinkling her nose. That was kind of disgusting.

"Kill him," came Fenrir's rasp from somewhere beneath her, finally managing to get his breath back. Next time, he wouldn't let this happen. Next time, he'd kill the bastard, whoever it was, himself if Delphia hesitated. Closing his eyes, he realised he had to be patient with her as he was with his younglings. She didn't know. It was her first kill. And she had reacted automatically to not only protect them, but because he had been hurt. This was her first hurdle. While his first kill had been glorious he had already seen hunts, been a werewolf. She was an innocent, pampered and tucked away in a life of idle thought and father-worship. Nothing was really expected of her.

He could change that. With a little patience. Now if he didn't hurt so damn much.

Delphia's eyes scanned the face of the man before her. She frowned as her brow furrowed, yanking the blade out of his throat. It gave a sickening squelching sound, grating against bone before it burst from his skin. A torrent of blood gushed forth, the man choking and making gargling noises, clawing at the wound, trying desperately to staunch the flow.

She watched a crimson curtain soak into his shirt, her head tipping to the side. Hearing a gasp, she turned her head a bit to see Fenrir struggle to his feet, wincing a bit.

"Finish him," he grunted, scowling at both the dying man and Delphia.

She nodded and her eyes flickered up and down the man's body. Then the dagger thrust sharply into his stomach. She could feel the damp, velvet tearing of flesh and the liquid ease with which metal settled in his gut. More blood spurted as his eyes bulged. A faint, wet screech issued from his blood-coated lips. A merciless smile curled Delphia's mouth as she twisted the blade and wrenched it up as far as she could, grunting with effort. It wasn't nearly as easy as she had thought it would be. Cutting through so much musculature was difficult with even a razor sharp blade. She could only imagine how Fenrir managed with his hands. Her muscles strained with effort and she finally gasped, arm going limp. The man continued to stare in horror, the pain too much now, suffusing him as his knees gave out. He slumped down onto the ground, still watching his attackers. Fenrir, using all the energy he could muster and ignoring the pain still radiating through him, kicked the man in the ribs. The knowledge that they broke, the sight of blood bubbling and oozing as the dying man tried to shriek, made him feel better.

Kneeling down before him, Delphia ran a finger through the blood dribbling down his chin. She smiled faintly and rubbed the liquid between her thumb and the pads of her fingers almost curiously.

"How do I finish him?" she wondered then, finally speaking as she looked to Fenrir. He grunted and knelt down with her, grabbing the man's hair and tipping his head back.

"Slice open his throat. It makes some noise but who cares. Another lesson, whelp: slitting someone's throat is not a silent kill. You'll hear that. But we'll have Apparated before anyone can get here."

She nodded and placed the blade to her victim's throat, Fenrir gently correcting the angle with his patient hands. Using all her strength she slashed him wide open, a gaping slit forming from ear to ear. Blood squirted onto her hand and robes. A gurgling gasp of air and a rattling sounded from the man's throat as he finally slumped, eyes glazing over.

Fenrir stood carefully, his body relaxing for a moment. When Delphia stood with him, he shook his head.

"He _kicked_ me," he finally snarled, wanting to lash out at her even though he knew that it really wasn't her fault.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, throwing her arms around him, smearing blood on his robes. He just stood there, still angry. She nuzzled his chest in hopes of making it up to him. "You were in the way. I didn't know what to do. But when you were hurt, I was just so angry . . . all I wanted was for him to bleed. I wasn't even thinking. And he was about to scream so he had to be shut up."

Huffing in a resigned way, he finally rested his hand on her back. He knew all that already. Somehow it was different hearing it as a blurted ramble from her, however. In the end, she had done alright.

"We have to practice more," he eventually said. "Something easier. A person in their home, perhaps. More freedom and less risk of getting caught."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, withdrawing gently from him. "Are you alright?" she whispered, looking so concerned and worried that he felt some of the resentment cracking.

"I'll be fine," he muttered, wondering when exactly that would be. "Really."

She pouted. "So no tonight?"

His brows lifted slowly and he had to start laughing. She had just murdered in cold blood and she wanted to know if he was working well enough to sleep with her? Shite she was irritatingly endearing.

"He kicked me pretty hard, considering," he confessed as he calmed down. Glancing away, he stared off a moment before returning his attention to her. "Perhaps you should go home, whelp. You did fine. It'll keep getting easier from here."

Reaching up, she stroked his scratchy cheek, smiling tightly. "You could come home with me. I can get you ice or something if you need it. I might even find something in a book that could help; there has to be a spell to help with . . . well, you did get kicked in . . . down _there_." She blushed and became timid and sheepish. "I'm so sorry, Fenrir. I didn't mean for that to happen. I would never hurt you," she added as she shook her head, hair flying around her.

Sighing, he squeezed her shoulder to punctuate his statement. "Then don't hesitate next time."

She frowned up at him a bit. "It was my first kill."

He snorted at that. "That's why I said next time. Your next kill will be easier, that I promise. This was my fault too," he added grudgingly, taking some responsibility for himself. He didn't like the idea, but she did seem upset and he had to say something to make her feel better. Or he thought he did; he wasn't quite sure but it seemed like the right thing to do.

"Are you okay to Apparate?"

Why did her voice have to be so soft and consoling? He heaved a sigh and nodded

"Yes, whelp, I'll be fine."

"I'm serious about coming over," she added. "You'll have to leave before sun up, but . . . I mean, at the very least I can try to help. If you want, you can just go home," she added hastily, stammering slightly as another blush burned her cheeks.

He smiled faintly at that, rubbing her back lazily. "No," he drew out, "I'll go with you. You have anti-Apparition wards around your house still, don't you."

She nodded in response, even though it wasn't a question. "The point is beyond the gardens in the front. I guess you've done this before."

"The rock parallel to the tree?" he muttered, staring off beyond her shoulder.

"Yup. That's the spot." She leaned up and kissed his jaw, still sorry about the night. She had wanted to do better and still couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. All she wanted to do was prove herself and she had nearly failed at even this. "I'm sorry," she breathed hoarsely, "I really wanted to do well for once."

He was hugging her before he knew what he was doing, shushing her gently. "You did what was required. A random Muggle killing. The Dark Lord set out no parameters for grading your ability. I'll tell him what happened, you'll tell him what happened, and he'll know the truth. That's all. And I'll offer to keep taking you on hunts until you finally get it. Alright?" Because when it came down to it, she really did have some aptitude for it. Now to foster it or he'd lose his easy access pass to her body.

She nodded at that, still feeling awful about things and that he had actually been hurt. Kissing him again, this time gently on his mouth, having to pull his head down to reach, she felt their lips linger for a moment. Then she withdrew, concentrating on her home, Disapparating with a crack. A second later, another crack echoed through the streets beyond the alleyway. The sounds were almost like gunshots and a man came racing out of the pub, fearing the worst as it had been some time since his friend had gone to beat up the drunk. Searching the area and unable to find his friend, he finally looked in the alleyway and started shouting in horror at the grisly murder. It didn't take long for someone with a cell phone to run from the pub towards the screams, dialling for the police even as he controlled the sickness welling up in him.


	21. Chapter XX: Together for a Moment

Hey guys nn Thanks for the reviews; they always make me happy. And seeing more and more people adding me to favourites oO Wow. Thanks Anyway, here's the next chapter. As always, enjoy, and _please review_. Your reviews feed my soul.

BL

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Chapter XX: Together for a Moment

It was yet dark in the Sonder lands, hours still to come before dawn. A pop filled the dead air, startling nocturnal animals, causing them to scuttle away. Indignant shrieks and hoots could be heard with scampering claws and heavily flapping wings. Delphia waited impatiently in the moonlight; it seemed brighter here for some reason then at the Death Eater meeting. Maybe the moon was just higher up now and so it was glowing even stronger. Startled from her bored thoughts by a pop, she smiled at the ragged, viscerally powerful man suddenly before her. He tugged at his robes with a little frown and she sighed lady-like, shaking her head at him. Taking his hand, she led him to the front door and snuck in, having to make it up to her room without even a house-elf seeing her.

Ducking through shadows and bounding quietly up the stairs (unable to even hear Fenrir behind her, which was surprising, as he was much larger than she), she was the one who took the lead this time. Skirting along the large landing, making her way to her room, she only gave an exhalation of relief when her door shut behind her and she leaned against it to make sure. They were safe. Her heart was still pounding frantically.

Giving Fenrir another smile as he looked to her, she stepped past him and opened her bedroom door, moving towards the bed. Her robe came off and was tossed aside, making it onto a chair. Then she stood there, unsure of what to do next as Fenrir came up behind her, seeing her vacillate. Placing his hands gently on her shoulders, he felt her slight tremble.

"Take off your clothes," he murmured in her ear, grasping her encouragingly.

She bit her lip and, hands shaking, peeled off her shirt. Squeezing her eyes shut, she continued to strip. Never had she taken her clothes off before a man. Fenrir hadn't even seen her fully naked yet. A tremor went through her; both of fear and apprehension. She was going to be naked, with a man, with Fenrir Greyback no less, in her bed. It didn't matter that he had been inside her, that she had seen him in the nude. He was used to being like that from what she knew of him. It was practically common knowledge; everyone knew he loathed clothing. As for herself, the longest she was without clothes for was in the shower or bath. Now she had to willingly take off all vestiges of her humanity and throw them aside. Her hands continued to shake, making the undressing more complicated, prolonging the inevitable.

Fenrir stood behind her, practically panting as more of Delphia's pale skin was bared to him. Her shirt was the first to go, then her bra; he could see her breasts bounce gently. His hands clenched, his loins pounding with blood. He really wanted to see her, to finally be able to touch and stroke every inch of her. All he had was his imagination filling in the blank gaps. And as large as his imagination could be, it was a poor second to Delphia's flesh before him. In a moment, he would see every delectable bit of her, open to his hungry eyes. The suspense was just _tearing_ at him. He wanted to strip her himself, but she had to accept this, become used to willingly disrobing herself with him. Without a modicum of hesitation, Fenrir stripped off his own robe and relaxed somewhat, relieved as the air was able to properly hit his body. Merlin that felt good. Putting his hand out, he caressed the curve of Delphia's lower back, then the swell of her hip, barred from going further by her skirt. She groaned from his touch, arching into him, her arse wriggling and rolling instinctually.

All he wanted to do was push her against the bed, force her skirt up and tear away whatever she had to be wearing under it. Then he would make her take him, accept his brutal invasion of her body, viciously laying into her until she was shivering and whining in that luscious way she always did. Because he knew she was already wet, yielding even now to him. Her scent was unmistakable. She always smelled of a ready bitch for him and he absolutely adored that about her. Even the simplest of touches had her willing to mate with him, to have him frantically in her sheath. He shuddered. Damn it he needed her.

"You still aren't naked," he rasped, pressing his body against hers. When she whimpered and quivered against him, he curled his arms about her and buried his face in her neck. Oh yes, that smell, that gratifying, come hither scent. Her hands went to her skirt, absolutely tremulous now then halted as she let out a little mewl of anxiety. Hushing her he dropped a hand, helping her strip, the skirt falling to the floor at her feet. He moaned softly, gazing down the length of her body. Her chest was heaving, her body moving gently against his. Even though her breasts weren't as big as he would have liked, he knew as he cupped one, her choked cry filling the room, that he was going to love playing with them. Pawing her breast as gently as he could manage, his eyes drifted down her front, head resting against hers. Her flesh was too damned creamy and pale, almost alabaster. Her belly was slightly rounded, the flare of her hips and packing of fat there proving her to be a perfectly healthy, absolutely breedable woman.

He moaned into her neck, clutching her with an arm as she shook, her nipples hardening in the air and from arousal. With one deft movement he had her panties off, tumbling to her ankles. His hips jerked and he had to briefly close his eyes, savouring this. Helping her step out of her clothes, he guided her to the bed and laid her down, stroking her side as she stared nearly frightened and definitely timid at him. She almost looked like a girl on her wedding night. Truth be told, this was her first time naked with him, with any man, and it thrilled him absolutely. But once he was between her thighs, her body would know what to do, and he knew her trepidation would flee her.

She went to touch him even as she shook nervously, then hesitated, looking concerned. He huffed, vexed, and gave her a look.

"Just touch me, Delphia. I'm fine; I'm not delicate."

"But . . . but don't you hurt?" she breathed, settling for placing her hand on his side, her breasts pressing together and swelling between her arms. He sighed at the sight, taking it in, revelling in the knowledge that every bit of her was his to claim.

"Damn it whelp," he huffed, frowning a little even as he continued to stare at her chest. "Just stroke me already."

Her brows lifted as she played with the hair on his chest, making him squirm. "Stroke you?"

He wanted to scream in frustration and settled on putting his hand to his face. "Yes," he mumbled through his palm, "_stroke_ me." Exasperated he took her hand in his and placed it on his rousing penis. Gingerly he wrapped her fingers around him, wondering how she thought he could hurt now. He had a young, willing woman lazing beside him, as naked as he, positively oozing oestrogen. She needed to mate; her whole body had to be urging her to this. He could smell it, for Merlin's sake, how could she not feel it?

"Oh," she finally whispered, moving her hand a bit. He groaned blissfully as she slowly pumped her fist over his growing erection, the blood pulsing through him until he was hard in her hand. Her eyes were wide as she watched and felt him grow, startled by the sight. Yes, she had studied all this and knew the physiology; however, it was something completely different to actually bear witness. And much more erotic than any factual descriptions in a text book. She hadn't see him limp before, had never seen this transformation happen in her life. It was almost amazing, having this brutal werewolf writhing from her touch, panting and groaning as she made him stiffen.

She wasn't doing it as he normally would have, but that made it fun, didn't it? He liked the way she stroked him, the featheriness of her movements almost too light, agonisingly teasing. He bucked against her palm, growling up at the canopy as he thrashed, wanting more friction, needing to be squeezed. Oh Merlin this felt too good, no matter how clumsy and inexperienced she was. Any whore could have made him hard, but it took his mate to make him whimper like a fool.

Tearing her hand from him with an extreme amount of effort and a breathless gasp, he lay there shivering for a moment. Delphia just laid next to him, completely still, her hand nearly crushed in his. She was absolutely confused. If he didn't like it, he could have told her. Or at least told her how he liked it. Pouting and trying to withdraw in shame, she cried out when he suddenly rolled onto her, pinning her down. His chest was heaving, his eyes wild as he looked to her. She whimpered at the intensity of his gaze, squirmed at the feel of his erection against her thigh. His head ducked down and the tension fled; she murmured, feeling him lick her jaw softly with the tip of his tongue. It was her turn to shudder, his mouth working along the column of her throat. He hesitated at her jugular, pressing his sharp teeth to her flesh. In one brief second he could bite. She was utterly at his mercy. She purred as he raked his teeth along her pulsing vein, legs parting to cradle him as he sucked upon her flesh. Her hands found his tangled hair, urging him on, whining for him to just have her already.

His mouth slipped from her. She could feel him moving down her body and she tensed. What was he doing? He was supposed to kiss her, supposed to nuzzle and lave her throat; wasn't he? Body stilling in confusion, she stared down at him as his lips wrapped around a nipple. She seized, the warmth and moisture of his mouth nothing she had felt before. A tingling thirst tore though every nerve and she swallowed heavily when her stomach clenched. Her hips began rolling as she tossed her head back, arcing into his suckling. The pressure was absolutely delicious, her body unable to take anymore of his glorious torture. But she couldn't stop herself from holding his head in place, wanting him to continue, to never cease this maddening delight. An upset cry escaped her as her nipple slipped wetly from his lips. His body was heaving, his gaze locked on her chest, giving himself a moment to try and find some measure of control. Squeezing her untouched breast in his hand, he felt it wasn't fair that this one didn't get any fun. Leaning over, he popped the straining nub into his mouth and let out a satisfied groan, eyelids drooping. His suckling started anew and Delphia nearly screamed, throwing herself back into the pillows, moving up against him, needing him to fill her.

"Please," she gasped, clawing at his back as she tried to drag him upwards, to get him to sheath the throbbing length against her leg into the slick, aching core of her. He mumbled a reply into her flesh, still sucking, breathing heavily through his nose. Flicking her nipple a few times with his tongue, he smirked at her writhing. He had been right; he _was_ going to enjoy her. Quite a bit.

"Fenrir," she gasped as she dug her nails into his shoulder blades, "touch me, oh please, _please_ touch me." She couldn't take anymore. Her mind was unwinding, every nerve firing with burning pleasure. Her body wouldn't stop moving, her hips undulating beneath his belly. She didn't really know what her whole being was begging for, only knew that when he filled her the ache stopped. Her clit was thrumming, hard and begging to be stroked; that much she knew now as well. Grinning at her reaction to him, her unabashed cries, Fenrir gently stroked her folds, feeling the moisture clinging on her. With agonising tenderness he circled his thumb around her clitoris, pulling back the hood but didn't actually touch her where she needed it most. Her angry, anguished roar almost had him laughing, his grin broadening against her plump breast. He felt her hand on his and murmured his approval, slightly surprised that she would take some initiative. She shifted his hand so his fingers were pressed to her inflamed clit and ground against him with a relieved cry.

Smirking, he pulled his mouth from her nipple and moved up her body, staring into her wide eyes, watching her gasping face. His fingers spread her wider as he rubbed her clit with the pad of his middle finger. She squirmed and moaned, clawing at his body, a leg hooking around his. He groaned as she leaned up, placing a hot, opened mouth kiss on his lips. Mouth parting against hers, he duelled their tongues together, her body rocking in tandem with his touches. She wailed into his mouth as his finger slipped inside her fluttering, wet channel, his thumb pressing against her clit. He felt her shudder as he brought her up to a sudden, bucking climax. Her eyes were wide, staring at him, frozen on his hand, gasping as her mind momentarily went blank. Then she was nearly sobbing, thrashing beneath him, needing more, humping his hand madly.

That was enough. Neither could take any more of this. With a grunt of effort, Fenrir slung himself over her once more and sheathed his cock within her in one, satisfying stroke. Delphia wailed her delight as her legs immediately clutched about his waist, pulling him closer, moving frenetically against him. He panted as he worked his hips above her, pelvis slamming ecstatically to hers, over and over, until they were rutting in that time-honoured, ancient dance of two bodies uniting in utter joy. His body shuddered with hers, his movements becoming feral until he was clutching her hips, pounding enthusiastically, howling up at the canopy above them. He felt her arch, every muscle in her squeezing him as her legs locked around his waist. She grunted as she rocked along him, not allowing him to move, greedily obtaining her second orgasm of the night. A long, low gasp, her eyes opening to stare stunned into his and her limbs fell onto the bed. She shivered under him as he thrust into her yielding body, finding that moment of pure pleasure as he roared her name. His cry was garbled and almost intangible, his seed spilling against her womb. Her hands clawed at him, drawing him to her as he collapsed, rocking tenderly against her when he finished.

His inhalation was shaky, his body quaking with hers. _Merlin_ that had been amazing. Better than amazing: perfect. Stroking her hair and kissing her face as she whimpered beneath him, he soothed her gently without a word. Her arms draped around his shoulders, hugging him tight with her face buried in his throat. She couldn't even think of words to describe what had just transpired. All she could think of was how he softened, still inside her, and held her as tightly as she held him. Her mind began to clear and exhaustion threatened to claim her. A yawn escaped her, then a light giggle, grinning fiendishly into his skin.

He could smell them in the sheets, in the air. His scent was all over her body, in her body, mixing with her own maddening smell of a satisfied, thoroughly pleased woman. Sighing in contentment, he let his head droop, nuzzling her neck as he felt her grin against him. He couldn't fight that; he grinned back. She shifted slightly beneath him and he let her withdraw a bit, moving into a better position so she could take his weight easier. He was happy to continue crushing her, liking the feel of her under him. Besides that, he just couldn't _move_. How she had managed to summon up even that amount of energy was beyond him. Her fingers tickled his spine in a leisurely, gratified caress. He murmured in response, rubbing his face in her sweaty skin, basking in their post-coitus euphoria. When she squirmed under his weight again after some time, he sighed and made himself flop over, dragging her with him. She buried her face in his chest, eyes closing.

"I want it to always be like that," she finally breathed, a smile touching her features.

He grunted and rubbed her back. So did he.

* * *

They had fallen asleep like that, wound together and still heaving. Through his peaceful slumber, something pricked at the back of Fenrir's mind, poking him endlessly until his eyes flew open. Looking down at the figure curled up against him, he smirked and took his time watching her sleep. She still had a hint of a smile on her face. That really boosted his ego. Eyes darting around, wondering what had made him wake up, he caught sight of the window and froze. A faint gold and pink light rose from the horizon, lightening the night sky. Panic clutched his chest and he hastily leapt from the bed, searching out his robe. Damn it, it was nearly dawn and he was still in her bed? How the hell was he going to escape?

Tossing clothes aside frantically, making a worse mess than what had been there before, he tried to remember where the bloody hell he had thrown his robe. Straightening up and dragging his claws through his hair, scratching the back of his head, he surveyed the room. Gaze falling on the bed, he studied Delphia's nude form for a moment, not really wanting to leave that. He had to be insane to be so eager to get out. Then again, Preia Sonder was incentive for any man to make haste and bugger off, especially when he had just slept with her daughter. Toeing back to the bed, Fenrir grabbed the sheet and went to drape it over her. He hesitated, eyeing her exposed hip. There were five, clear puncture marks with dried blood crusting and cracking on her smooth flesh. Looking the bed over, he could see splashes and smears of brown from when she had moved or rolled over. He grinned at that, letting the sheet drop over her. It was no good for someone to find her naked, bleeding and uncovered. In this heat, no one would question her being naked, as long as the other two were unseen.

Crossing his arms as he examined the room once again, he just frowned and knew he had only a few minutes to get his robe, escape her room and flee the manor grounds. He heard a shifting in the bed and turned a bit, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. Delphia yawned, propping herself up on her side, the sheet bunched up before her, tangling in her legs. The corner of the sheet fell when she rubbed her eye with a knuckle, exposing a pert breast.

"What time is it?" she wondered, gazing up at him.

He nodded towards the window. Her eyes widened when she saw the glow of the approaching dawn.

"Shite," she spat as she looked frantically to him. "You have to go. I don't want you to," she tacked on, lowering her head a bit as she smiled at him, "but you have to."

"I know," he rumbled, turning his attention from her. His eyes swept the area despairingly. "My robe, though."

Sighing, Delphia flopped back in the bed, her arms sprawling out as she shrugged. "I think you tossed it by mine. It should be over by my desk. I'm not sure though," she added with a giggle. "I wasn't really paying attention."

Sniggering slightly, he went to the desk and picked at the mass of black cloth, realising after a moment that she was right. How stupid could he be? There was way too much there for just one robe, though he didn't blame his early morning mind for not quite catching that. He wasn't exactly a day-person.

"You can go out the window," she mentioned helpfully. "Unless you want to risk the house."

He grunted in return and went to the window, opening it. Peering out, squinting his eyes, he saw that there was a ring of decorative stone around the house, jutting out a metre or so below the pane. If he could get on that, hang off it, then let go, he would only have a few feet to drop.

"Is there anything below us? A window or something that anyone can see me through?"

Her eyes drifted lazily over his back, studying the muscles and scars that seemed to make up every inch of him. His messy hair hung down in pseudo-dreadlocks between his shoulder blades but there was more than enough of him to see. Even when relaxed he was firm and sinewy, bristling with vigour.

"There's nothing," she finally sighed. "You'll be safe. Don't worry. Just go, before a house-elf comes up here."

Nodding half to himself, he twisted around to look at her. "I can get out the window," he informed her, making her hold back a laugh and a roll of her eyes.

"I thought you could," she said instead, smiling at him, studying his face. She could just picture him running across the field with his robe in one hand, a silhouette escaping frantically before he was found out.

He gave her a look before examining the window once again. How was he going to get out, hit the foothold and not plummet two storeys in the attempt?

"When will I see you again?" she asked then, just as he had figured it out. His thoughts jolted from his mind, he cringed as he realised he was going to have to re-think things. He had almost figured it out, and she just _had_ to speak and distract him.

"Soon," he finally rasped, managing to get a leg out the window. "I have to teach you, whelp. A couple days." His other leg joined the first and he put his weight on the exposed few inches of stone, testing it as he sat on the pane, ready to fall backwards if need be. It was solid though, capable of taking his weight.

"A couple days?" she snarled, rolling over again to better glower at his back. "A couple days, Fenrir? And what am I supposed to do for a _couple days_?"

He shrugged at that, grinning out into the dawn, liking her tone. "You have fingers. Use them. And then tell me about it." Hefting himself out, chuckling at her humourless snort, he edged his way into a turn, lunging his upper body in through the open window. "I have to spend some time with my pack, Delphia. Besides, your mother will become suspicious if I'm around too much."

She blinked, her eyes going wide. Mother: she had completely forgotten. Falling back in her pillows with an unhappy groan, she laid her arm across her forehead. She was not going to be pleased with events, Delphia knew that much.

"I'll see you soon," he grumbled before managing a rather risky drop, gripping onto the stone he had just been teetering on. His fingers slipped and he grunted in surprise, falling down a good metre, landing on his ass. Wheezing in some measure of shock, he took a moment to fill his abruptly empty lungs. It hadn't really hurt; just jolted him. Standing with a sigh, brushing the dirt off his legs and buttocks, he shook his head. Thankfully Delphia hadn't been watching. He could have never lived that down.

Mental note: learn to climb in and out of her window as soon as possible. Preferably discovering how to not make a fool of himself in the process. Chuckling then, he shook his head woefully once more and darted off, heading for a safe area to Disapparate from. He didn't want to chance the anti-Apparition wards, making his way well past them before he felt safe.

In her room, Delphia rolled back over and sighed, spread out on her bed. She still had some time to sleep before work. And the prospect of dealing with mother after work wasn't exactly cheering. Trying to get comfortable, she stared off at the wall, able to smell Fenrir in her pillow. Her eyes drooped somewhat as she breathed steadily, inhaling their scent until she woke with a start, not even realising she had drifted off.

It was time to get up. Another thrilling day at work ahead of her and what would amount to a delightful dinner afterwards. Grumbling she slid from the bed and dressed before her elf even appeared, helping her with her hair. At least she could see how Katrine was coming along.


	22. Chapter XXI: No Other Options

Hey guys Here's another chapter for you! Please review. Remember: reviews feed my black soul. Enjoy!

BL

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Chapter XXI: No Other Options

The day had started off normally with only a few minor points. Delphia had got dressed, had breakfast and left for work, arriving at the Ministry as normal. The only difference was she had just helped an infamous werewolf escape from her room after sleeping the night with him. And committing murder beforehand. Then there were the little wounds on her hips, which she had noticed when yanking on her clothes. Fenrir's marks on her, however, weren't exactly new. They stung a little, but healing potion had helped with that. Besides, she sort of liked the pain. At the very least, it reminded her of him, and what they had done together. And how beautifully breathtaking it had been.

She was still sighing and squirming a bit in memory as she made her way to her office, staring off as she strode through the door, heading for her desk. Pulling out the chair, grunting a hello to Katrine, she plopped down and dropped her bag beside her. Fully relaxing in the seat, she just stared at the papers before her, not really caring at the moment.

Katrine studied Delphia as she just slumped there, legs splayed, her head tipping back as she inhaled a long, almost satisfied sigh. She started giggling, covering her mouth with her hand, taking her in.

"Oh my God, girl. You got laid."

Delphia jerked at that, sitting up straight. Sucking at her lower lip to try and keep her lips in a firm line, she failed miserably as the corners of her mouth curled.

"What makes you say that?" she muttered, picking at her skirt.

Rolling her eyes, Katrine leaned in conspiringly, wriggling her brows. "Because we're both girls. C'mon, give me all the nasty details." She grinned and Delphia found herself chuckling, shaking her head.

"Perhaps I'm just tired?" she queried with a shrug.

"Tired because some pure-blooded young buck decided to get his rut on with you," Katrine shot back, eyes alight, brows quirking.

Delphia gave her a teasingly unimpressed stare. "No, Katrine. Besides, no pure-blood would be anything near a stud. They're all technical. They'd never make you feel . . . anything."

Squealing and clapping her hands, Katrine put her fingers to her lips, eyes wide. "Not a pure-blood! Ohhhh! You naughty girl! So, who is he? Some half-blood? A Muggle-born?" She gasped then, looking like she was about to have an absolutely delighted fit. "Not a Muggle?!"

Delphia snorted with laughter. "No, not Muggle." She blushed. "Not _any_ of them!"

"Half-bloods are the best," Katrine sighed knowingly, her eyes taking on a dreamy quality. "They have so much to prove . . . uh! Merlin they're wild."

Giggling at her, Delphia crumpled up a piece of parchment and hurled it over in a mock attack. "You're a whore," she taunted, grinning fiendishly.

Shrieking and laughing as she ducked, Katrine righted herself and stuck out her tongue mockingly. "I'm not a whore; I just know what I like. As many boys as I can get."

Howling at that, Delphia chucked another ball of paper. "I haven't done anything!"

"Yes you have," Katrine cooed, eyes glinting as the paper hit her mid-chest. "Someone put his dirty boy bits inside you."

Coughing at that, nearly choking on her laughs, Delphia shook her head, waving her hand at Katrine for mercy. She didn't think she looked any different from usual, how the heck had the 

other girl been able to see anything? Or was Katrine right, and it was because they were both girls? They had also been working together for awhile now; perhaps Katrine could just tell something had changed. Even though Delphia still thought that there was truly no obvious way of telling.

"I don't know where you're getting these ideas from," Delphia managed to gasp, a giggle or two escaping her, "though they are funny. Don't we have work to do?"

Katrine snorted in exasperation and cast her eyes to the ceiling. "Do you think I'm _blind_, Delphia? Besides, we can work later. We have all day."

Blind? Oh no, Fenrir didn't . . . Did she have bites showing, bruises? _Hickeys?_ Terrified of missing something, of not covering up the evidence of her secret tryst, Delphia couldn't even check herself to make sure she was alright. If nothing was showing, the gesture would be too telling. But if there was something visible, being unconcerned with it would help her bluff her way out.

"Oh c'mon Delphia," Katrine breathed, getting up and walking over, perching on the edge of her desk, brushing back some of Delphia's hair. She tucked it behind the startled girl's ear. "I'm not an innocent, and I'm kind of surprised to see that you were. Someone's satisfied you _real_ good."

Shaking her head in disbelief, Delphia just gave her a wry look. "What makes you think all this, Katrine? I mean, it's just another day. Neither of us is any different."

Laughing at that and smirking, Katrine's eyes shone merrily. "Are you joking me? You walked in here like a fucking _queen_."

She ducked her head, going pink. But there were so many things changing in her life. Couldn't any one of them have had an effect on her? Last night though . . . even without the killing it was the greatest night of her life. Though she found herself really looking forward to another chance at murder, to be able to prove to Fenrir that she could kill if given the opportunity. She didn't want to fail him. It was more than just her family name on the line now; it was his, too. If he couldn't teach her, couldn't prove to the Dark Lord that she could learn from even him, what happened then? But without the worry of being caught, of having to hold a victim in one place so they couldn't run off, she knew she could do better. She had it in her, she wanted this. He'd see that she was better than being something to lie on her back for him.

"Delphia," Katrine drawled, "you're not answering me. And you're blushing."

She shrugged listlessly. The problem was, was that she couldn't even explain why she was feeling different. She couldn't explain anything away without telling Katrine about the Dark Lord and being a Death Eater. What did she do?

Then again, they were just girls, and there was nothing wrong with girl-talk. She had done that quite a bit in the Slytherin dorms. Or at least she had listened.

"C'mon, tell me," Katrine prompted as she kicked her legs in the air. "I'll share first. I went out on the weekend to my usual haunt, this club not too far from my house. Wizarding place here in London. There's lots of them; you should come some time. Anyway, I was all decked out in this little skirt and robe ensemble," she said as she gestured down her body, wiggling her hips and chest, "and some guy, I don't even remember his name, hit on me. Oh Del, he was so bloody cute, I couldn't say no." She grinned. "Like every other time I can't say no. We went out back and he was already ready to go. We did it against the wall a few times and bloody hell, I couldn't even walk after. Greatest night of my life, until I do it again next week." Shrugging then, she gestured to Delphia. "See, not difficult. Your go."

Heaving a sigh, Delphia gave her an incredulous look. "I . . . I've never shared anything before. I don't. I can't risk it." She paused and twisted her fingers together, worrying her lip. "But Kat, how do you know when a man really likes you? How do you even know what you're feeling and what it means? You've been with guys; haven't you ever, y'know?"

Katrine arched a brow. "Fallen in love?" She snorted and shrugged. "I suppose. I mean, I thought I was in love once, but it turned out I just needed a good orgasm." She threw her hands in the air. "Who knew?"

Giving her a look, Delphia exhaled sharply through her nose. "I'm serious."

Katrine's other brow lifted in a mask of shock. "Merlin Delphia, you've got it bad, don't you? Shite, I remember my first time. At Hogwarts. It was awful. I was a virgin and he was some clumsy, stupid Gryffindor who I thought was _just so hot_. After that, I went to the guy's friend for a revenge lay and oh Merlin that was good."

Delphia studied her for a long moment. That was so at odds with what she felt, what she had experienced. Her first time, technically, had also been awful but only because they had been forced to stop. Then her "real" first time? Absolute, undeniable bliss.

"So it's just sex for you?" she wondered.

Katrine nodded brightly at that, grinning. "Yup."

Shaking her head, Delphia's shoulders sagged. "We're very different people."

Gently patting Delphia's arm, Katrine just shrugged. "We have very different lives."

"I _like_ being around him, Kat. I really do. Talking to him is an exercise in patience but always so amusing. He makes me so . . . so breathless, but I feel like a little girl every time. I know things and I understand what my body's saying, but . . . it's like the communication between my brain and my body and everything else breaks down so I'm just this trembling mass of I-don't-know-what."

Grinning slowly, fiendishly, Katrine gazed at her. "Is he _older_?"

Hesitating, Delphia finally nodded. "Yeah, he is, actually." She had never really thought of it. He was just Greyback; immortal, timeless, a horrific legend. Those didn't have ages, they just _were_.

Squealing once again and positively bouncing, Katrine shook her hair out with an enthusiastic groan. "I _knew_ I liked you, Delphia."

Laughing at her as she pushed her off her desk, Delphia gave her a look. "Just forget it. We need to get to work. Enough gossip and prying into my poor, pathetic life."

Katrine chuckled and went back to her desk, grabbing a piece of parchment. "Then next time you've had sex, don't come in here and sit down like some rogue in the night brutally ravished you and made you love every second of it."

She had quite the colourful way with words, didn't she? And how the hell did she know so well?

"You should be a columnist," Delphia grumbled. "You could have made Rita Skeeter run for her money."

Another chuckle and she flicked her wand at the paper, floating it onto Delphia's desk. "I'm planning on it, Del. Now read that. I itemised everything I could about Harry Potter."

That must have been why she was so cheerful. Delphia quirked a brow. "Ravenclaw much?"

It was Katrine's turn to grumble, tapping her fingers on her desk. "Yes. Just read it. You might find it interesting. The gist of it says that you do have a point. I'm still scared to think that he might be telling the truth, but that's what he wants us to do, right? Be scared? Question the Ministry and create a rift, unbalancing our world? That puts us in danger and, being brought up Muggle, he just doesn't get that."

Delphia nodded, smiling slightly to herself as she read over Katrine's list and random diatribes, mostly questioning and evaluating certain points. She still wasn't completely convinced, but having been a closet Dumbledore supporter, this was most definitely a start. Grinning at Katrine, she saw the door opening and quickly grabbed a quill. Even before she could start to pretend writing, she noticed Katrine working away as if she had been doing that since she came into the office. After both girls exchanged syrupy-sweet greetings with Umbridge and gave each other looks of disgust, they settled into work, Katrine tossing balls of paper at Delphia periodically in retribution for earlier.

* * *

When Delphia had Apparated back home, she scuffed her way down the flagstone paths to her front door, thinking idly. If Katrine had figured things out so easily, why hadn't anyone else? How could her own mother not see? Did she take it as Delphia's excitement and trepidation of being a Death Eater and serving the Dark Lord? That was true as well, though very few people could actually hear that (valid) explanation. Or was it that Preia _did_ know, she just didn't want to admit it to herself? That thought was scarier. And what of the Death Eaters who hadn't even blinked, right after she and Fenrir had . . . been together? Could that be because they just didn't care? Even if they did know? Merlin her mind was befuddled. Things would have been so much easier if she had only shoved Fenrir away when they first met, saying he was a disgusting half-breed not worth her breath, let alone her body.

That would have also been a lie. As much as Delphia relied on lies and lived on them, it wouldn't have sat right with her. Besides, it had never even occurred to her to refuse him either. Coming up to the front door, she opened it and strode through, tossing her bag aside. It disappeared a moment later and she knew she could find it in her room. Walking along the maze of corridors to the kitchen, she was stopped short by a figure bursting from the private parlour before her, looking positively livid.

"_Fenrir Greyback!_"

Delphia blinked at her mother, startled and a tad shocked. Something roiled inside her and she fought the urge to bite back _No, I'm Delphia, Mother. Greyback's a werewolf._ _He's about yay tall and male?_ That would have earned her a beating, a good one, and so she bit her tongue and stuck with confusion.

"In," Preia growled, pointing to the parlour where Jaeger, a bit battered, already sat on a couch. He glanced up at his sister and shrugged, pursing his lips. She swept into the room, hands balled into fists at her sides. There was no way she was going to show weakness on this point. Taking a seat beside her eldest sibling, Delphia watched as her mother stormed to her usual chair and sat down in a livid huff.

Preia studied her children for a long, hard time. Finally she sneered and shook her head. "You're lucky I got your brother first, child. He had to scream half his explanation."

Delphia glanced apologetically at her brother and he put a consoling hand on her leg as his lip twitched.

"He's a friend of the family, Mother," Jaeger drawled cautiously.

"I know that!" Preia shouted. "I know! Your father was one of the beast's best friends! Sickening," she finally muttered, holding up a hand as she pinched the bridge of her nose, silencing Jaeger before he could speak. "I respect Greyback. I do. But I want to know why my daughter is being taught by a half-breed, no matter who it is."

Eyes still on her brother, Delphia fidgeted slightly. At least mother's voice had been calmer, this time. Reserved, almost.

Jaeger gritted his teeth, noticing his sister's look. So it was up to him, was it? "Because it _is_ Greyback. If it was anyone else, I would have flat-out said no. Not only that, but the Dark Lord acquiesced to it. He even gave requirements for her kill."

Preia grunted, closing her eyes for a moment. "You said that before."

He scowled, thankful her eyes hadn't opened yet. "I didn't know if you could hear me through the Cruciatus."

She smirked and her eyes did open, fluttering a bit, invoking an image of pure, unadulterated evil in Delphia's mind. It was at that moment she realised she wanted to be her mother when she was older; that power, that strength, that ability to strike fear in everyone around her with the tiniest gestures. That was greatness.

"I heard you, Jaeger."

"We both know," he began, practically excluding Delphia from this conversation, "that Delphia's has some . . . trouble with curses and duelling. She has improved, and I know it's in her. When she gets angry it comes out and that's all the pity. She can hurt, she can _kill_. The thing is, is that she needs an easier avenue to," he struggled for a second, "to access that part of her. Greyback offered a solution. I debated, Mother, I did and I left it up to the Dark Lord to decide."

Preia frowned as she stroked the arm of her chair with the pads of her fingers, thinking on this, as she had all day. When Jaeger had told her (he had no choice), she had become quite irate. Her thinker, her baby girl, was to be taught how to kill by that brute? Learning how to kill was necessary though. If Delphia was to make it into the Inner Circle, even as one of His plotters, she would be required to fulfill certain duties. Torture, killing, coercion: they were all important. Being just a brain for the Dark Lord she would stay in the Outer Circle, called forth as needed. That wasn't enough. She and her husband had wanted more for their only girl. They had sons to be strong-armed thugs. And Gorath had pampered his baby so.

"How was your kill?" Jaeger asked then, turning to Delphia. She jumped a bit at the sudden attention on her, then broke out into a brilliant grin.

"Fun," she finally said. It had been. The bad bits were fading from memory, especially since Fenrir had turned out to be fine.

Preia lurched and Delphia cringed instinctively. Then the older woman settled, a smile crossing her features. It was honest and she nodded slowly, appreciative of her daughter's reaction to death. That it wasn't in a more traditional way irked her, but she forced herself to accept it; for the time being, at least. Delphia had killed, had a taste of it, and she didn't shirk away. She looked like she wanted more. That was more than a start; that was progress.

"Good," she murmured. "Good. And what do _you_ say of Greyback teaching you?"

She shrugged at that, picking at her robes. Since when did mother want her opinion on anything? Was this a trap? Or was she already resigned to facts and wanted to hear Delphia's bit, now that she had heard everyone else's? "Well, he is a bit ghastly," she breathed, trying to find ways to please her mother while making sure she could still be around Fenrir. "Almost frightening. But he never hurt me, never made me fear him. Actually," she allowed, furrowing her brow a bit, "he was rather patient with me. He showed me what to do, instructed me along the way."

Preia snorted. "So you don't mind?"

Delphia laughed and tossed her hair. "I can hold my breath long enough to be around him," she said, getting a smirk in return, a conspiring look.

"See, Mother?" Jaeger broke in, gesturing towards his sister. "She's already starting to come into her own. It might even be good for her. If she learns how to kill from Greyback, and she continues working on her duelling, then when it comes time to fight, we have no worries. Even if she chokes and can't use her wand, she'll be more than capable of killing with her hands. An Auror won't expect that, which only benefits her further."

Preia smacked her palm on the arm of her chair, ending Jaeger's tirade, sick of this. "What other options do I have?" she snapped. "She's already killed with him and the Dark Lord has already approved. I'm not about to go back on His word." Frowning, she leaned forward, scanning Delphia's face. "If he ever touches you, goes near you, you tell me."

Startled as a coldness filled her veins, Delphia just sat there. "What, Mother? What do you mean?"

Sighing, sitting back in her chair, Preia shook her head. "You cannot be so innocent, Delphia. I did not raise you, _especially_ you, to be stupid. Fenrir has a penchant for turning the young." She slipped, finally, showing the closer friendship she had with the man than she had let on. It had been twenty years, more, that she had known him. At the very least, she appreciated his bloodlust, his eagerness to kill for the Dark Lord. Those were to be respected. Besides, she could speak sharply to him, rebuke him, and he would just whine in that dog-like fashion of his. Or speak back, but never attack. A brute, yes, an animal, definitely, but such a useful one.

"He'd have to be transformed, Mother," Delphia mentioned dryly. "And I'm not going near any werewolf on the full moon, most especially him."

"A man can turn a young girl with more than a bite," Preia murmured softly. "You're a woman, Delphia. Surely you know that by now?"

She blinked a few times, a heavy dread sinking from her chest down through her stomach. What was her mother implying? She couldn't think . . . was she really saying that? Was it a good guess on her part? Or an honest warning of what might happen? Had happened, Delphia had to admit to herself. This was a mess; she was almost afraid of seeing him again. Not because they'd get caught, but because – why? Because she was being used? An easy mark? No, it couldn't be. Forcing her mind to the night before, she had to tell herself that the joy and satisfaction she received from him could not come about if he was manipulating her.

He could smell her hormones though, couldn't he? Knew what she wanted even when she herself was confused and trying to deny it. Was it possible that her mother was right? He was turning her to his cause, making her in his image, for his own purposes? Then why did it feel so sweet to be with him?

She was the one who had approached him. _She_ had demanded tutelage, before any of this had come up. All this was her excuse to get what she had wanted in the first place, her route to have what she had already settled on. No, this was just a game and she had to play it right, or else get sucked down into the bog, bewildered by her own rules.

"I don't know much about men," Delphia eventually said, shrugging a bit. "Only what I heard in the dorms at school, and even then it was stupid gossip about boys. But I'll be careful." Oh yes, she'd be careful. Very careful to not allow her mother even a whiff of what was truly happening. Perhaps it was good that he had insisted on some time apart. Out of necessity, of course, but now it would work to their advantage. No matter how much she wanted to see him in the flesh, to know where she truly stood with him. With her mother's warning still ringing in her head, it was best if they didn't see each other for a little while. There was no need to incite her 

suspicions when she had only given caution. Because Preia couldn't know; it was impossible for her to know. Wasn't it?


	23. Chapter XXII:Responsibilities and Rights

Hey guys! I know, I know, it's been awhile. Apologies. Been working my non-existant balls off. Has been endless. And I'm writing other stuff, so that's taken me away. But I had a dream last night about werewolves (not even joking) and so when I woke up, I was all :O and FENNY! I missed teh Fenrir-ness uu So I figured it was time to post for you. Co-incidentally, this chapter is all Fenrir.  
Sometimes I don't know whether to heart my mind or fear it

BL

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Chapter XXII: Responsibilities and Rights 

The land around the ramshackle house had been long since abandoned. Centuries even people had been picking up and leaving until the woods had begun to thicken once more, the fields becoming thick meadows from being uncultivated for so long. There were homes, cities, towns, even a village or two beginning to encroach in civilised sprawl all around the house. But for now, and for time to come, it was naturally alone. Everything one could see when walking around the house belonged to the pack.

Of course, Fenrir's own spells had protected this place. He wasn't completely stupid, and, yes, sometimes a hypocrite. If the Muggles found this place, it would bring too much trouble for him. As with the rest of the wizarding world, he had to be cut off, left in his own realm. There were protections, borders set up, curtains to prevent anyone from seeing or stumbling onto the den. If someone, somehow, made it in, all they'd see was an ancient well, covered with a slab of stone. An old wooden sign dangled off it for effect, the barely legible word "danger" etched on it in red. He thought it was a nice touch.

All that had been done years previous. When he had taken over his sire's pack and come across this perfect place. Too long had they wandered without a proper home. Every pack had to have a den, had to have territory. Corinthe was a radical in many ways, and that was one of them. Constantly wandering, never settling, dragging his mate and his whelps and his pack along from spot to spot, sometimes encroaching on the territory of other lycans. Every wolf needed a place to stay, somewhere to raise their younglings and train and be nurtured.

Perhaps, at one time, even Corinthe had given that to his people. But not when Fenrir had been turned. He had made sure to make that one of his first goals when he became Alpha; habits died hard, however, and it had taken chance to spark the conviction in him, to remind him of what his pack truly needed. A few years of wandering and make-shift dens; caves, sewers, alleys, wherever a group could stay without being spotted for a few hours. A few days. A month. Then he had stumbled upon this place, making it his own. The death of a wizard had provided the wand he needed to protect the area. At the time, magic and spells were still fresh enough in his mind to do the work necessary. Now though, it was nearly all gone.

Measly twigs were nothing compared to the full might of a werewolf. He had learned that, seen it, experienced it. How many wizards, even Aurors, had he slaughtered, sometimes just for the pleasure of it? He didn't remember anymore. The numbers had grown until he didn't keep score for posterity. Besides, he had earned his rights as Alpha; he had nothing more to prove.

Fenrir examined the area from the lawn that was completely his. All this was his and would be his forever. There were young ones outside, fighting and wrestling as usual, the elders walking through the groups, examining technique, helping where need be and doling out punishments if warranted. He could stand here and watch; he liked that. The power he held was so complete that he didn't even need to _run_ the pack anymore. Others could do that for him. He was a figurehead, a mediator and the one who led hunts, settled things when things were bad and dealt with the elders who then dealt with the pack.

Of course, he did enjoy direct contact with his people, being the one that raised the younglings himself. Pups were always the Alpha's young and no matter who sired a werewolf (it was usually himself anyhow), they became his responsibility. There was nothing greater than taking a child under his wing, showing them the truth of the world, and teaching them how to 

deal with it, fix it, and come into their full potential. He had done that for decades, and he would continue to until he died. If he ever died.

Wizarding children were his favourite. They learned to hate their parents, most wishing to kill them in cold blood by the time they were teenagers. The cruelty of their birth family's society galled them, sickened them in their innocence. As children they wondered why no one would help them with this "disease", why they were shunned for something they had no control over. When they got older, having embraced their feral nature, they revelled in their hatred. All along the way they were gently coached by the man who had created them, the only one who praised their violence and new form. Children learned so well, so easily, especially when properly nurtured and raised. And a pack was always a loving environment, no matter what anyone said about werewolves.

He loved being Alpha. His pups were playing, his elders were doing all the work and he just had to play with the children when he wanted, teaching them as they needed to be. All were literate; he could not abide by stupidity. The last thing he wanted for his pack was a dumb werewolf. They could read, write and kill without a second thought, returning to him for praise and reward. Most could analyse and dissect information. Every last one was a stealthy group hunter, capable of spotting weaknesses and prey, working in unspoken tandem to reach a common goal.

Then, there was the rebel wolf, the lost sheep so to speak, his _prodigal _son. The prized whelp, one of his most famous actions. Sitting on the front step, watching everyone with detached eyes he just held his chin against a palm, elbow to his knee. Fenrir snorted and headed over, no one noticing him yet. Of course they wouldn't; he wasn't a threat. They would at least recognise his scent and as it was everywhere, the smell of comfort and home, there was no need to acknowledge him until he was directly before them.

Lupin was back with them. The fool had actually tried to live as a wizard; succeeded too for some time. That really pissed Fenrir off. The boy – man – ignored what he was, attempting to fight for the enemy of them all, the very people who would gladly tame then kill him. Why? Because he was better than all of them, because he was the next step up in the wizarding world. They hated being challenged by people more powerful than their gathered whole, those bloody, arse-fucking wizards. Their own government was no different from the Dark Lord. They only fought him as a political thing. All politicians loathed to lose their power, especially to someone greater and stronger.

Even after his foray into the world of wizards, even after living with them, as one of them, of being accepted and having friends he was back. The kid went to _Hogwarts_ for Merlin's sake, then got a ruddy job there. Once his lycanthropy was discovered, however, Remus had been thrown away like the rest of their garbage. Returning to his rightful home, coming to his pack. He had to have learned by now that Fenrir was always right: no matter how much you tried to be a wizard again, they just didn't care. They'd sooner put silver between your ribs than spend twenty-nine, thirty days with you as another, regular wizard.

So give it to them. And give it hard. No courtesy spit, just tear into the fuckers. Some had to learn their lessons in different ways, Fenrir supposed, and Lupin had learned what Fenrir had been taught, then taught generations of werewolves after, becoming the shining example of all his rhetoric and venom. The wizards didn't care if you were normal, didn't care if you were the same as them. Because you shifted one night of the month, they wanted you dead. No matter how smart, pretty, talented or worthwhile to their society you were, you became worse than Muggles. On par with Dementors, feared more than dragons.

Even sprites and faeries (the real ones, the ones in Ireland – even Fenrir was scared shitless of them) were treated with more respect and reverence than the _werewolf_. People spat it out like a curse, shuddered at the thought. The Ministry itself was confused, unable to determine whether the werewolf was a being or a beast. On one hand tempting them with compassion and humanity, while the other held the knife, driving it into their backs before shoving them off with the goblins and trolls. What were they?

They were going to be the downfall of the Ministry, that's what they were. Fenrir was better than them, his pack was better than any wizard or witch, and he was going to prove it with blood and viscera. He stepped up to Lupin, finding himself suddenly flocked by his pups and followers, jumping around as they wondered where their Alpha had been. He stared down at the ragged man who still clung to his vestiges of a past life. The idiot wore robes, patched and frayed; he was better off naked. Especially in this weather. Very few others wore anything and if they did, it was so little as not to make a difference.

"Lupin," he rasped, holding his Death Eater robe against his side, "so you came out to play."

Remus stared up at Fenrir for a moment, squinting slightly against the morning sun and finally shrugged, forcing a smile. "I thought it might be nice if I interacted with the pack."

Grunting, Fenrir poked at a stone in the ground, loosening it idly with his toes. "You've been gone for a long time. You should have always known this was your home."

Wanting to shudder and avoid the large, naked man, Remus just continued to smile, sickened to his core. A scent wafted to him in the almost dead breeze, but it was enough for anyone with heightened senses to note. It was sweet, almost feminine. Could that have been why he was away for such a time? Apparently their (he almost choked on the word) Alpha had been gone to a Death Eater meeting, but Lupin knew from Snape that it hadn't lasted that long, and definitely didn't last the length of time Fenrir had been gone. He had heard some whispers about a mate, some witch he had been _seeing_. Lupin pitied the girl and wondered if she even knew who it was she was sleeping with. How could she not? Or why she'd do such a thing. He still remembered the first time seeing the horrifying man. Everyone had the same reaction to him; revulsion, fear, dismay. People were even afraid of _him_, Remus Lupin, who hadn't hurt anyone in his life. He had gone to lengths to avoid such a thing. So how could a witch (and it was clear in the whispers it was a witch, not a fellow werewolf), accept Greyback of all people? It confused Lupin, but there was no mistaking the smell still fresh on Fenrir's flesh. He had mated, recently.

The only thing Lupin couldn't tell was if any of it was consensual. That had to be a factor.

"The wizards kicked me out," he muttered, hanging his head, feeling it was partially true. They had been through this before, but Fenrir seemed to enjoy reminding him, and everyone, of what had happened. Or supposedly happened, especially when the others were about.

He snorted, half-laughing at the threadbare man sitting forlornly before him. "They hate what we are," he growled, stepping around him and into the den, wanting to get rid of his robe. _Which is why we take their children,_ he thought as he bounded up to his room on rickety steps, navigating the narrow hallway to the master bedroom. _So they can learn to hate as their parents hate. Fire with fire, measure for measure. A kill for a kill._ Entering his room Fenrir tossed the robe onto his bed and headed back out, making his way for the front once again. He needed to spend time with his pack. Lately he had been neglecting them, especially since . . . Inhaling sharply, he grinned a bit. Since Delphia had leapt on him.

Going for the front door, a figure slid out of the messy parlour room, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Someone's happy," she murmured, making Fenrir freeze.

He huffed a sigh. "Aneya," he grumbled, studying her nude body. She had a new cut across her thigh. Did she ever stop getting wounded?

"Where have you been?" she asked, untangling her fingers, reaching up to claw at her hair, tugging at it a bit to loosen the knots.

His brows arched incredulously. She had become rather daring, hadn't she? Expecting him to tell her where he was at all hours, prying into his business, demanding answers.

"What is it to you?" he rasped, leaning into her, glowering faintly.

She rolled her eyes. "I can smell her on you. I doubt anyone's missed that one. I was curious, that's all."

His golden eyes scanned her face. "Really? And why are you curious, Aneya?"

A womanly exhalation; Fenrir realised then that all women did that the same way. It was a look of impatient patience, of indulgent calm.

"Because you're our Alpha and we worry about you. I wanted to make sure you were, in fact, with your mate." She sniffed the air around him and smirked. "I like her perfume."

He let out a little, low chuckle, disarmed somewhat by that. "After all your scowling and dark face about my having a Feral? Now you want to know how often I'm mating her?"

She nodded at that. "I've accepted your decision at long length. Jeddie and I have discussed this for some time. If she's a Death Eater, as we spoke awhile back, and a witch on our side, then what harm is it? You have a responsibility to your pack to whelp pups and to bring an Alpha female to us. Even if you cannot give us the last, it's still your right to take someone as yours," she finished primly.

Giving her a noncommittal grunt, wondering what she was on about this time, he slitted his eyes away. Or was she being honest? He knew she had no ambition to become Alpha, especially Alpha female. It was completely feasible, and probably easier, for him to just have her. If he insisted, she'd have no choice: hell, he could force her and she'd have no recourse. But it wasn't supposed to be like that and besides, they had no interest in each other. He preferred his witch. Aneya preferred being Beta, free to choose her mate if and when her Alpha died. Unless, of course, he had a mate to take over for him, leaving Aneya as Beta, and head of the Elders. They were all comfortable in their roles, mayhap a little too comfortable.

"She isn't involved with your lives, so I don't see how anything changes," Fenrir finally barked softly, scratching his neck. "Or why you are so concerned about this. It's my right to have a mate, and I've picked. The moon called and I answered. While it's something I have to do, it doesn't make anything here different. I'll go to her when I need," well, if that was true, he wouldn't be here at all, would he be? "And the pack will continue on as normal." He gave her one last look before heading back for the front door, stepping outside unimpeded, nearly tripping over Lupin. He had forgotten about him.

Aneya shook her head but took some comfort in facts. It wasn't a Muggle he was with, and it wasn't someone against their kind. It was a Death Eater, an ally, and she had to trust in her Alpha's wisdom. He had always seen them through, even in the worst times. How could he go wrong now? Or was her doubt and unease just her fear of what a Feral would be like, how she would react to everyone in the den? And how she could manipulate Fenrir, change him, and end up changing his life and home after decades of stability.

She returned to the parlour, the epiphany edging at the forefront of her thought, but unable to be expressed. Her mind wrapped around it, coddled it, but just didn't blurt it out. Instead it hid, snuggled deep within her, rooted to her core. Flopping onto a couch, she sighed and shut her eyes. She hadn't slept well, worrying about what could have happened, wondering why their Alpha hadn't returned home after his meeting. Now she knew, and now she could sleep well. And if not well, better.

Fenrir was completely awake and full of energy as he stepped past Lupin, out onto the grass. Sleep wasn't even a concept to him at the moment. Any worries over Aneya and her thoughts evaporated as surely as everything else did in the sunlight. He watched the younglings for a moment, their tanned, muscled bodies flexing as they fought. Yes, he had raised them well. Every single one was a happy, keen killer.

Going over to a group of younger teens, he stepped into the throng and caught one of the fists sailing towards a sparring partner. The boy who belonged to the fist yelped and laughed, trying to tug out of his Alpha's grip. Fenrir held fast, then twisted, lifting the boy up onto his back as he grabbed another, tossing him up. The others started laughing, joining in, being thrown around like dolls by a child.

"What are you going to do now?" Fenrir rasped, spinning on the spot, the boy on him flying about, squealing.

"Choke you!" he shouted as he wrapped his free warm around Fenrir's throat, pulling tight. He grunted with effort, holding firm as he heard their Alpha gasping for air, struggling slightly. Fenrir could have easily broken the hold, but that wasn't the point. Wrestling him to the ground, he flipped the kid off, placing a few gentle punches along his torso, showing the others how to strike and where. They all knew instinctively that this was a lesson, mentally taking notes, watching before they all lunged as a single form. Attacked from all sides, Fenrir rolled on the ground, fighting them all simultaneously. Play was always taken most seriously, as it was how they learned best. Not only did it teach them how to incapacitate, maim and kill, but it helped them learn their places with each other, and in the pack. Every group had its own unofficial alpha, a leader of sorts for the group. Each child followed that alpha's lead, knowing who was stronger and where they stood. Even the males and females were split in such a way. The Alpha pair led the whole pack together, but the male was specifically in charge of the men, while the female was the same for the women. But they could lead for the other when their mate was absent or unavailable.

So while to an outsider it looked like rambunctious wrestling, almost silly and stupid, it was essential to the health of the pack. Which was why Fenrir loved his place so. He could play all day and just claim duty. Then kill for the fun of it and say the same.

The girl of the group sent a jab at Fenrir's oesophagus with stiff, locked fingers. If it had been a hard blow, it would have definitely incapacitated him. Faking a groan of defeat, he collapsed backwards, sprawling out on the lawn. As he was continually poked and hit, he chuckled and started grabbing hands, throwing them away.

"Alright," he grumbled, "enough, I'm dead. Let your poor old Alpha recover." He snickered as they laughed and got up, going back to their fighting, livelier now. Rather than joining back in and doing anything, he lay where he was, staring up at the sky, squinting. He needed that; he had a lot of pent-up energy. But now as his blood thrummed under his skin, his belly rumbled with hunger. Slowly dragging himself up, then standing and stretching, Fenrir returned to the front of the house where the elders lingered, watching all.

When he had approached them, dragging dried grass out of his tangled hair with a claw-liked hand, Fenrir grumbled, "Do we have any food?"

They all shook their heads, Lupin looking up to him with a shrug.

"There hasn't been anything for a couple days," he sighed.

Fenrir grunted at that, returning the shrug. "Well, then let's go out and _take_ some."


	24. Chapter XXIII: To Kill to Really Kill

Chapter XXIII: To Kill; to Really Kill 

Dinner hour was approaching. The manor was finally silent after a couple hours of shouts and muffled screams of pain. Everyone was getting ready to eat, relaxing for the time they could. Delphia's shoulder still hurt. She had banged it hard on the floor when she toppled over from one of Jaeger's well-placed hexes. The agony tearing through her chest had been too much and it made her keel, even as Jaeger muttered the counter-curse and freed her of all effects. So now she just had real, physical pain.

The past couple days had been exhausting for her. There was so much for to prove now, with her entrance into the real world, accepting her place for the Dark Lord. Especially with her new lessons, being taught by Fenrir; her mother and eldest brother made it their mission to strengthen her, improve her skills with the Dark Arts. They weren't sure of what she was going to learn from him and how she would take to it. Or how readily they would accept her new abilities.

This was the second day she had come home from work, her mind still buzzing, to be dragged into the ballroom by Jaeger. Makrin and Kieran wouldn't enter without a very good reason. The room was barely used; a perfect training area, duelling stage. Free of interruptions and furniture, he could teach her what she had to know in complete freedom. No staring eyes, no snide comments and no posturing. Right from the bottom up, Delphia would have every lesson possible drilled into her brain.

He had to choose after work for a reason. Her mind was still ready, her body awake, no matter how dreary she felt. After dinner would be worse; full, lethargic and lazy just wouldn't cut it for this sort of thing. The past nights she had gone to sleep once she hit her bed, barely making it onto the pillows. Training made her body ache, her brain shut down as soon as it could. Dreamless nights helped her anyway: she rarely had time to think of Fenrir.

Except that when their lessons resumed, she'd have twice the physical effort to put forth. Even more, as his lessons were all physical. Murder was not easy. Waving a wand was simpler, even elegant, and didn't have the toll on her body the way driving a blade into flesh did. It did, however, kill her mind, draining her of all her energy before her body could realise what happened. Then the physical reactions took hold as she was constantly dodging and attempting to block or counter her brother. By the end of dinner, she was a mess. Not even Quidditch had been this intense. And she rather liked Quidditch.

Waving her wand above her shoulder, she mumbled to herself, too tired to trust the spell mentally. Her muscles eased after a moment and she felt the pain fade to a tingle. Willow would take care of the rest, should she need it. Debating on getting up for a bit, Delphia heard the unmistakable sound of a house-elf appearing in her room. The young, female elf approached her and beckoned her down for dinner. Turning her head, she looked into the large, dopy eyes of the elf before swinging her legs off the bed and sitting in the same movement. Sighing resignedly, she went down to the dining room after waving the elf away, quite aware of where to go.

Entering the large room and sitting at her seat at the long, dark table, food appeared as she settled. Everyone else was already there, the men having been seated, eating snacks before their meal. They were hungry, Jaeger especially so. The duelling wasn't a toll on him like it was for his sister, but it was still exercise. And she was thankfully becoming better. She had managed to hit him a couple times. Even if she didn't have skill, when she did hit, it was very painful to the point of bloody incapacitating. It had to be the books she read; there were curses she knew he hadn't even heard of. Archaic, mostly, but serviceable. Deadly serviceable in the right hands.

He wanted to make sure those hands were hers. His plotting and planning and teaching were straining his mind too, making him eager for such a simple, comforting respite as food. He reached for the tournedos of beef, resting to a medium-rare, drizzled with a sweet honey-thyme jus. Delphia went after them as well, right after scooping a little pile of potato onto her plate. She had a craving for meat, preferably rare (bleu would have been divine), but this would do. Digging in as hungrily as her brothers, not caring if she was shouted at by mother, she even went for seconds. This time she ate more leisurely, informing her mother bite by bite that Katrine was swaying heavily for them now, but hadn't quite been convinced. Another week and she'd be theirs. It was all for practice, for fun, and mother had to know what her child was capable of.

Besides, coyly slipping and implying that her mystery man had a family had almost given Katrine a scandalised fit, with her running around the office almost screaming her delight. It wasn't a lie, not quite: Delphia hadn't exactly said he had children. He had a pack, and to a wolf, that was family. Katrine had flung her arm around Delphia's shoulders once she had calmed, and proclaimed her love and devotion to the girl. Logic worked well on people, but ensnaring them to you in the heart did wonders. If she liked Delphia, saw her as a peer and fellow commiserator, then she'd be more willing to override her own doubts and suspicions. Just out of friendship.

Naturally she couldn't have told her mother all the reasons why twisting Katrine was working, but she could explain enough. After a few minutes of her mother's smirking pride and the men talking and yelling at each other, a house-elf literally popped into the room.

Even as Preia sneered down at him, he spoke, bobbing to the group and sweeping into a bow.

"Missus, please be forgiving Nosey's interruption, but there is being a Mister Greyback in the house."

Blinking and coughing, Preia shook her head incredulously, thinking she had heard wrong. "At the door, you mean, elf."

But the elf shook his head slowly, almost fearful. "N-no, Missus," he squeaked, "he is being in the house now. He walked right in and made demand for the Miss."

Snorting in distaste, scowling deeply, Preia looked at Delphia. "Well, it seems Greyback came for you. His manners are, as ever, unchanged."

She had gathered as much as well, but didn't say it. Instead she nodded meekly, gripping the edge of the table. It was nerves, anxious about what tonight was going to be like, but it was also excitement at finally seeing him again. The men fell silent at the revelation of an infamous werewolf stalking their halls for their sister, shifting in their seats, fiddling with the remains of their meals.

The doors behind Delphia and Jaeger burst open, the snap of wood against wood jolting everyone seated. Makrin and Kieran stared wide-eyed at the door, and the figure that strode right in, plopping in the chair between Delphia and the eldest male. Fenrir reached for the last piece of beef as Preia watched warily. He popped it in his mouth, chewed and wrinkled his nose. Then he swallowed and picked at his teeth.

"Your elves overcooked your meat," he growled, relaxing in the chair.

"And it is good to see you as well, Fenrir," Preia shot back, eyes narrowing. "Your sense of etiquette is eternally impressing. Should I have the elves wash the floors now, or should I wait until you leave to try and remove the stench and grime?"

He just chuckled lowly at that, giving her a sardonically tender smile. "You are always gracious, darling Preia." Getting up, he put a hand on Delphia's shoulder. She didn't need to force the shudder. Her belly quaked.

"Thank you," Preia hissed through gritted teeth. "I take it you're leaving with my daughter now?"

Nodding at that, he shook her a bit. "The whelp will learn to kill, and kill well," he rasped, squeezing her shoulder affectionately. To those watching, it was almost cruel. Delphia knew better. "And you can wash up after I'm gone," he added with a bark-like laugh.

Delphia placed her napkin beside her plate and cleared her throat delicately. "Mother," she murmured, nodding to her. "I assume I'll be back late," she added on a breath, her gaze almost pleading as she stared into her mother's pale eyes.

Preia almost couldn't stand to let her go, so worried was her daughter's expression. But she knew Fenrir. He had no interests in life besides infecting the young and murder. Neither would be turned on Delphia, she knew, so there was no major issue she could raise that would prevent this. Unless she wanted to go back on the Dark Lord's word; and only the insane would do such a thing. She may have been a very bitter woman, but crazy she was not.

"Be careful," was all she snapped before ordering the still cowering elf to clear the table and bring dessert. Delphia slowly lifted her eyes to Fenrir, but he wasn't looking at her. Almost gently he guided her out after she had stood, walking with her to the front door. She checked around to see if there were any elves about, if anyone had followed them. There was no reason for someone to, and when she was sure it was clear, she flung herself at the unsuspecting werewolf with a cry. He grunted in surprise, nearly dropping her. Her limbs curled around his body, her mouth pressing to his. Frozen to the spot, barely able to hold her, his world consisted of her lips against his as he hungrily returned the kiss. Their bodies clung together and she wriggled, moaning into his mouth. Her hands clawed at his back, drawing herself in tighter as she nipped at his lip and eagerly rubbed her tongue against his. Mind spinning, Delphia barely knew what she was doing anymore, just needing to touch him. Her flesh flared and grew warm, electric as he took charge, leaning into her. Growling deep in his chest he held her tighter, his tongue plundering her mouth, making her whimper. He shivered and felt his blood race, thrumming through his body. He was going to lose control if she kept sighing like that, reacting so fluidly to his every touch.

Fenrir pulled back with a low groan, forcing himself to stop, to somehow escape this delicious torture. They couldn't, not right now, and fooling themselves would only make what they had to do more difficult. Gasping for air he stared at her with wide eyes, blinking a bit. Merlin . . . she pouted up at him and squirmed, forcing him to allow her to drop. His arms ached a bit; it was a good ache.

"What?" she wondered, running a hand through her hair, straightening it. She blushed a little. "You don't like kissing me?"

A slow grin spread across his face and he touched her cheek with gentle, pointed nails. "We have to go, is all," he murmured to her, leaning in and inhaling deeply. He shut his eyes. Oh, she always smelled so good.

Giggling, she poked him in the chest. "So are we leaving or not?"

His eyes opened and he stared down at her, arching his brows. "We're going." He gave her a quick kiss; or, he meant to. Then she moaned, leaning into him, her arms curling around his neck and he was lost. Her lips parted beneath his and he found himself having to drag himself away yet again, before he accepted her silent invitation.

"Damn it," he grumbled, "stop it, whelp."

She smirked at him. "What? I'm not doing anything. _You_ kissed _me_."

He sighed heavily, just looking at her. "I have a target picked out for us. He lives alone and should prove to be an easy, entertaining kill. You do still want to learn that from me, don't you?"

She stared coyly at him, smiling a little. "Of course I do, Fenrir. I'm really excited about it, actually. I want to . . . I need to prove myself."

He grunted at that, examining her. How was this little, pretty witch even capable of such thoughts? Of wanting to murder, to shed blood with him. To do other things with him, no less. She was just standing there, smiling at him, not quailing for a moment under his gaze. Better people than she would have run screaming at the sight of him. But she threw herself into his arms, begging him with every inch of her body to take her, make her his, to mate endlessly with her.

There were other things in life. In their life. He touched her face again, a faint smile echoing hers. There was so much more they could share together. He knew she had the capabilities to do whatever he asked of her in their hunt. She had to have more of her father in her than people gave her credit for. Even with her upbringing there was still so much within her that cried out as an individual, to be acknowledged and allowed to flourish.

"Do you have your dagger?" he wondered, breaking the comfortable silence as they had basked in the presence of the other.

She nodded at that, pulling up her modest skirt. His eyes became locked on the hem as it slowly lifted, exposing more and more of her thighs. The dagger came into view and her skirt was still going up. He ignored the dagger, licking his lips as she was almost fully exposed to him, eyeing her longingly. Too bad she was wearing those flimsy little panties . . . he could just rip those right off and – no, he couldn't do that right now. Afterwards he'd teach her a lesson. He swallowed hard.

"You aren't looking at the dagger," she teased, her voice soft, too full of mocking knowledge for his sanity.

He smirked, not bothering to tear his eyes away. "No," he agreed in a husky tone, "there's something else down there that caught my attention."

A grin flickered across her face. Delphia had no idea where this brazenness had come from. But it was fun teasing him. Perhaps it was because she knew he wanted her, that he wouldn't turn away and tell her to leave him be. There was no more questioning what they had, or could have. She could make him crave her and tell him no, torturing him even as he knew it was all his for later.

"Alright," he finally grumbled, hating that he couldn't just touch her. If he did, he wouldn't stop, and they really did have someone to kill. Besides that, the risk of getting caught was too great. "I can see that you have your dagger," he finished, reaching over and grabbing her hand, forcing it and her skirt back down. "Can we go, or are you going to make me suffer further?"

He almost laughed even as it incensed him that she actually considered it, a thoughtful expression turning her features.

"No," she finally sighed, shaking her head and relaxing somewhat, "let's just go killing."

Now he _was_ laughing as he took her hand, walking out of the manor with her. Most wizards took their girls out on dates; he took his out for a bloodbath. Pure-bloods gave their wives flowers and jewellery, didn't they? He gave his mate a blade and would bring her corpses. 

Not completely normal by the standards she had been brought up with, but then normal didn't seem to suit Delphia. Her fingers rested gently against his without flinching, without fear or wanting to pull away. Then she squeezed his hand as they strolled through the gardens, having to go that way to make it to the Apparation point. He couldn't question himself any longer, in any form. She didn't just tolerate him, she wanted him around. That warmed him as much as the sunlight filtering through the fruit trees.

"So where are we going?" Delphia wondered as they approached the stone that told them where it was safe to Disapparate. She looked up at him as he shrugged noncommittally.

"As I said, to a house. I'll side-by-side us. I can't really tell you cities and streets, Delphia," he tacked on, frowning slightly at her. She huffed and gave him an exasperated stare.

"I was just curious," she retorted as they stood at the stone. Her hand pulled from his and she crossed her arms, quite affronted. "Are you always so difficult?"

He cast his eyes to the sky. She was like too many bottles of Ogden's Best. After one, you were light and giddy. Two and you were sloshed. Three and you threw punches at every shadow and then fell in a puddle of your own vomit. She was alluring, invigorating and then infuriating. And like Ogden's Best, once you drank it too often, once you got the taste, you just couldn't give it up and always went back for more. Even when you knew you'd be a wreck by the end of it.

"If I was being difficult, you wouldn't be able to comment on it," he rasped, eyes glinting with challenge.

Her brows lifted. Rather than being scared, put in her place, she stepped up and stared him right in the eye. "Name the time and the place, wolf-man."

"Tonight," he rumbled, "your room."

Coughing with laughter even as her stomach became cramped and her breathing deepened, she was unable to hold the façade any longer. "Fenrir," she sighed, resting her head on his arm as she gazed up at him, "you're impossible. You do realise that?"

He grinned slowly, staring out at the mostly still fields. The smell of dry earth and dead grain filtered to him through the scents of rotting fruit and lush foliage. The garden truly was beautiful. It had always been, tended to for centuries, continually expanded and improved upon. The bright, rich colours caught the attentions of most, but for him, it was the smells.

"I know," he said at length, looking to her, cocking his head dog-like, "it's my prerogative as Alpha."

"No," she quipped in return, grabbing his hands as she rocked back and forth on her feet, hips swaying, "your prerogative is having me on my back." Pink stained high on her cheeks after she said it, but that she had indeed said it surprised him. Hot blood flooded his system and he gulped.

"Yeah," he managed to get out, "that too." She giggled at that, ducking her head, winding her fingers through his.

"Are we going to go?" she wondered, moving towards him, turning about so his arms wrapped around her, her back pressed against his abdomen. He grunted in reply, just looking off. A sense of contentment swelled in him as he took in the lands, similar to his own, his mate cradled in his arms. This was how life was supposed to be. Why he had denied it for so long bewildered him. The sense of loss, of time wasted nearly crashed down on his system. Why had he waited? But who was he to take at his side? Who would he clumsily woo? Some witch he saw at a distance? A Muggle? One of his pack? Maybe it wasn't so much that he denied himself, but that the world denied him. As it did in everything. It denied him a place, it denied him any semblance of humanity. It almost denied him a proper mate.

But it had failed there, hadn't it? He lowered his chin to the top of Delphia's head, exhaling slowly. And then he'd destroy that world for the fun of it. How dare it question his motives and his resolve? They wondered why he loathed them and wished to see them floating in pools of their own, silken blood? Did they sleep soundly at night, he wondered. Did they even realise they made their own enemies?

Wizards, and the world at large, had to learn their mistake. The lesson would be painted with crimson. They wouldn't give up easily, but then if they did, where was the fun?

"Let's go," he growled suddenly, breaking the quiet that had descended about them. All but the rustle from the garden and the sounds of animals within. Delphia nodded and shut her eyes, trusting in him. It was, honestly, misplaced. But it was touching nonetheless.

Fenrir managed to not splinch them, another ten points for him. They stumbled slightly in a back yard on a Muggle street as they cracked into existence. Without even thinking Fenrir had both of them hunched down, having to drag Delphia with him so they wouldn't be seen. It was still light and the risk of getting caught, or at least being seen, was a reality. Waiting a moment, listening for sounds of alarm or curiosity, he heard none. Motioning to her, his eyes set and distant, he worked his way through a vegetable garden, pulling Delphia with him. She followed along, trying to keep up, not used to this sort of crouched movement. Her way of fighting had always been proud, shoulders back and staring right into the enemy's eyes. Or that's what she had been taught and tried to do in duelling. When she could manage to duel.

This was different. There weren't any Professors around to help, no fellow students to step in. The other person would not be getting up and walking off when the effects wore off, or were removed. Fenrir's hunting was nothing like a civilised duelling match. Delphia found that excitement was welling inside her, blood thudding in her ears. She could hear her thrilled heart's beating. Her whole body tingled, her chest elated. She was really going to kill. Like she had before, but this, again, was different. They could take their time, not have to worry and she could prove herself.

She was capable. She was able. And most of all, she was bloodthirsty. Watching as Fenrir tried the back door gently she focused on what was going to happen, rather than convincing herself of her abilities in her mind. The door gave way under his fingers, the knob turning and allowing them entry. He sniffed the air and she breathed in. Delphia didn't know why she had done this, but it made sense to some part of her brain. She could smell the remains of dinner, the garbage, the lingering scent of a man. Fenrir smelled more than that, and heard more, his ears pricking even though it wasn't obvious, his human form limiting. He had learned to compensate, to hone his senses so he wouldn't have to rely on his eyes. That was the weakness of humans. Their noses and ears were atrophied. He could hear noise, multiple voices from the room beyond the kitchen and he froze. His nose told him there was only one person there, but his ears . . . there had to be at least one other.

Delphia squeezed his hand and he turned his head. She gave him a curious, searching look, wondering what was wrong. Somehow she knew he was unnerved. He shook his head firmly and gestured for her to stay put. Pulling away from her he went to the open doorway, peering through the threshold. There was one man, as he had thought, sitting in a chair, staring at a box that had a picture on it that kept changing. It had people talking from it, holding funny sticks to their mouths now and then. Images of those large, metal machines that roamed the streets kept appearing, then buildings, then more talking.

Those were the other voices he had heard. He sagged in relief. Creeping over, silent even without the sounds of that glowing box, Fenrir's face twisted into an iniquitous grin. He was quiet, stealthy, a predator of the night. Delphia wasn't; all these extra sounds would help them. The noise could cover the screams of pain and death, which was always a good thing. Around here the neighbours were rather close together and it was possible that someone would hear the murder take place. They could come, trying to help, or the please-men would arrive and use their metal wands. Those things hurt and Fenrir wanted to avoid any entanglements with them if possible.

Waving Delphia over, he came up behind the man. Both men saw Fenrir's reflection in the glowing, noisy box at the same time. Eyes narrowing, Fenrir's reflexes were quicker, better honed from his lycanthropy and years of practice. He swung at the man as he was still jumping in fright, clawing the side of his face as he threw him to the floor. The man toppled out of the chair with a cry, sprawling out and managed to gather himself faster than Fenrir would have thought possible. He crawled backwards, eyes wide and body heaving with fear as Fenrir loomed calmly above him.

"C'mere, whelp," he rasped, slitting his eyes over to watch Delphia walk over cautiously. The man jerked slightly at the sight of a second intruder, more than startled to see it was a young woman. She lifted the side of her skirt; the man's eyes darted between her slowly exposed thigh and the suddenly enraptured, wild-looking man before him. Both men's chests were heaving, but for completely different reasons. Fenrir licked his lips, eyes shining. She had to tease him, didn't she?

Delphia pulled the dagger out of the thong around her leg and her skirt fell back down as she almost expertly held the blade. She remembered what Fenrir had taught her in their few lessons together. It was comfortable holding a knife in this way, easier to control. Most people gripped handles with death's hold, but she had it gently against her palm, though her grip was firm. Nor did her fingers completely encircle it, giving her better mobility.

The man was suddenly aware of a harsh stinging in his face, of warm blood seeping down his cheek, cooling to itch madly along his jaw. He slapped the blood away, smearing it across his skin as more oozed down to replace it. The girl's eyes went wide. She sniffed the air and he felt virtually disgusted. It was an instinctual revulsion, the sight of a human losing themselves to their most base form.

She could smell his blood. Her throat tingled and her stomach rumbled. Breathing shakily through her mouth, almost able to taste the metallic sharpness on her tongue, she stepped up, trembling slightly.

Fenrir grinned at the man, making him almost faint. "We don't mind if you scream," he rasped, his voice the oddest thing the man had heard in his life. It was animalistic, almost like a dog that had learned to talk.

Giggling at that, Delphia's eyes went smugly to Fenrir's. The man inhaled an unsteady breath, cringing at the sound. What girl sounded so merry at a time like this? She was almost more frightening than the beast with her. He was barely a man. His hair was dishevelled and tangled, his hands pointed claws, and his teeth . . . they were awful and jagged, like a monster. But he was obviously horrible; the girl though, she was pretty and almost sweet looking, if not for the haughty airs around her. How could she do something like this, be so comfortable with the _thing_ beside her?

The man started screaming. He had no other recourse. His mind finally kicked his body into some form of action, understanding on a primitive level what was about to happen. He leapt up and Delphia lunged, dagger at the ready. Lashing out, the man made a well-timed, solid punch in her direction. She yelped and moved her body, getting hit in the shoulder, unable to avoid it completely. Fenrir snarled in aggravation but made no moves to protect her, having to force himself to stand back. The whelp had to learn on her own, as they all did. In the space of a second she had brought the tip of the blade to the retreating arm and cut it without thinking, swinging the dagger back around to slash the man in the chest. His shirt split open as he screeched in pain. Another giggle from Delphia, a grin plastered on her face. She turned to Fenrir as blood began to seep from the wound, staining the ragged cloth. He nodded to her, silently praising her. She smiled at him and then returned to her victim. She didn't know how to fight, not properly, but she still managed to kick out his knees from under him. He fell to the floor, catching her arm as she went at him, trying to cut him again. Grunting with effort, overpowered, Delphia did the first thing that came to her mind as the dagger was wrenched from her grip. She kicked him in the groin with all her might, making even Fenrir flinch at the sight. The howl that issued forth from the man was ear-splitting, utterly agonised as white spots appeared before his eyes, settling into hazy red. He fell forward, clutching himself as tears burned his eyes.

Perhaps the first, nearly failed lesson hadn't been so horrible after all. She had seen the effects of a careful kick, even without proper strength behind it. With a full swing, she could incapacitate any man if need be. Long enough, at least, to gather her fallen dagger and shove the man front-down on the floor.

"Kill him," Fenrir rasped, almost dancing from foot to foot in his excitement and barely containable lust. His fingers curled into fists as he breathed heavily, deeply, unable to keep his eyes off Delphia.

She was breathing hard too, but mostly from effort. The smell of blood filled her mind until she was a writhing mass of hatred. She wanted more blood, to see it spilling from this worthless creature, to hear his agonised shrieks. Pouncing on his back, she held the dagger up with both hands even as she felt him struggle beneath her. Adrenaline surged through him, battling with his pain as endorphins were released. The pain in him became a dull throb, not near enough to keep him prone on the floor. He lifted his body up, arms shaking as his muscles fought against Delphia's weight. But she wasn't heavy enough, strong enough, to stop him.

Instead she plunged the blade to the hilt in his back, feeling the shudder of inertia go through her when it could go no further. The scream the man gave was shrill, absolutely tormented. His arms gave out as he blubbered in agony. Then he was screaming again as the blade withdrew and stabbed repeatedly all around his spine and between his ribs, until he was gurgling up blood, choking on pink phlegm. Tears stained his face, the salt stinging the wounds already there, though the pain was nothing comparable to his body. She kept stabbing as he screamed his throat raw. His vestige animal instincts gave one last tug, making him try to drag himself away. The sudden movement caused Delphia to slip, already unbalanced by her position above him, ready to strike again. She yelped, slipping slightly, her eyes going to Fenrir automatically. His face was a mask of loathing and violent desire, his muscles tense, body trembling with the want to join in her kill. She blushed when she realised he had an erection, her own body seizing with need. It was all the distraction the man needed, hefting himself away from her. She fell to the floor, shouting in anger. The man struggled to his feet, copious amounts of blood pouring down him as the excruciating, searing pain of the stabbing filled him, almost making him collapse.

Stepping up, finally having a reason to help, Fenrir drew his arm back, then punched the man in the face, breaking his eye-socket. He shook out his hand as the man collapsed once again on the floor, his voice an octave higher than before, squealing in pain. Delphia stood shakily and went over to the man who was curled in the foetal position, covering his face with both hands. Fenrir helped her turn him over, ignoring the noises he was making, drowning out the picture-box. Resting on his back again, Delphia looked up at Fenrir, smiling a faint thank you. His eyes swept her face, the spatter of blood covering her like freckles, her bloodied hands and robes. She leaned into him, giving him a quick, sudden kiss.

"Do it, whelp," he growled into her mouth, flicking her tongue with his as the man writhed beneath her, clamped between her thighs.

She hummed her agreement and pleasure, pecking the corner of Fenrir's mouth affectionately before returning her attention to the prone man beneath her. She grabbed his hair, yanking his head back, sinking the blade into his throat. He gurgled, eyes going wide as she slashed him open. Blood spurt forth, sticky and wet, soaking the carpet. There was a rattle of air and after a moment, the body went limp.

Her legs were shaking, her muscles weak. Slowly Delphia stood, knees nearly buckling as she righted herself. Fenrir caught her, gently coaxing her into a standing position, his fingers stroking her face as she just stared weakly at him. Her smile was faint, almost wan, as she relaxed in his arms. He leaned over her, covering her with his protective warmth, his stable presence as his mouth brushed hers. She sighed happily, leaning up into him just before the sound of a door hitting a wall broke them apart. They both gasped, eyes wild, Disapparating a split second before a figure charged into the living room and let out a horrified scream.


	25. Chapter XXIV: You're Mine, Now

Well... You had all better enjoy! ___! But you will ;) Naughty children that you are. I suppose this is a belated Halloween treat. Eat it up. And please say thank you with a review ;) 3

BL

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Chapter XXIV: You're Mine, Now

Delphia hit the ground outside her family gardens, collapsing to her knees even as she appeared. It was a struggle to breathe, to hold herself up as her muscles quaked, twitching and shaking uncontrollably. She heard a popping sound and then felt a figure beside her, a hand on her back.

"We're fine," Fenrir rasped, helping her back up, "we didn't get caught."

She stared at him, eyes swimming, her whole body trembling against his. "I feel funny," she breathed, wrapping her arms around his waist clumsily, barely able to hug him. Her arms felt like jelly and she was unable to stop the tremors going through her. The closest thing she could remember to ever having these stomach-roiling shivers was when she had been caught by Snape after curfew in third year. That had been more finalised dread, however; this, this was something new. And it was awful.

He grinned over her shoulder, feeling her quiver. Aftermath and the fear of being caught; she knew what it was to hunt now. It had been close, a little too close, but thankfully they hadn't needed to _run_. She still had her dagger clutched in her hand, holding it as if it was the only thing grounding her to reality. Gently extracting himself from her body he plucked it out of her hand, wiped it off on his robe, then lifted her skirt. She just stood dispassionately there, waiting for him to tuck the blade under the thong. He did so carefully, righting himself when done, rubbing the side of her neck soothingly.

"You did well, whelp," he murmured, the sunset glowing orange against the side of her face. She nodded at him, smiling weakly, her eyes going to his.

"Thanks," she breathed, rubbing at the drying flecks of blood on her face. She scratched some of the black-red bits off, wrinkling her nose. "I'm a mess, aren't I?"

He shook his head, still grinning. A mess? No, she looked ideal. A feral, innocent child, who had just committed an unspeakable act and revelled in it. She hugged him again with a sigh, smirking at his expression. Then she jumped when she felt the jutting hardness under his robes, sighing down at it.

"You really need to learn how to restrain yourself," she informed him wryly, the trembling fading from her limbs. They were just weakened now, as soft as her clenching belly was becoming. His grin broadened as he drew her back against him, running his nose against the side of her head, inhaling before he kissed her flesh. Was she too shaky, too uneasy to go to her room with him? Or did she need this, need to relax, expel the aftermath in the most perfect way?

He held her out in the brilliant, dying sunlight until a hazy glow covered them and lights began to flicker on in the windows of the mansion. Withdrawing, Fenrir studied the blood on her face, her exhausted eyes. The adrenaline had faded, he noticed. She was tired, sagging against him.

"Is this normal?" she finally whispered, looking entreatingly at him.

Was what normal? Wanting to sleep with a werewolf, and not just any werewolf, but him? Murdering someone in cold blood and enjoying it? Wanting to wrap her arms around him and be coddled and cooed over by a fierce beast? There was nothing normal about this. Then he realised she meant her reaction after their hunt. He smiled faintly, holding her face in his hands. Of course that's what she meant; she wasn't questioning anything else.

Thinking for a long moment, he finally gave her a nod. "Yes. Its aftermath, whelp."

"It's fading," she breathed, reaching up to touch one of his hands, placing hers over his and squeezing. "I don't feel so odd anymore." She nodded to punctuate her point and leaned up suddenly, pressing her lips to his. He felt too good, even as he stood there, startled. When he began returning the kiss, more insistent than she had been, her body went slack. It was different from the crushing weakness of before; she almost felt weightless even as she sank. Wrapping her arms around his neck, holding herself up, she eagerly fell into the feel of him. It felt too good, too _right_ to be doing this now, still covered in blood. Comforting; a sense of familiarity swept her, making her clutch him tighter, moaning into his mouth. This was more than right.

Fenrir had his hands up her skirt and was pushing her back before he caught himself, realising what he was doing. Dragging himself away with a pathetic groan, he tried to catch his breath as he gazed at her. Her lips were pouting, swollen and her face was touched with heat. She obviously wasn't troubled with what they had done, with what she had just done. He could still see the knife plunging into the man's back, repeatedly, endlessly. It was a glorious sight, still, even in his mind.

"If we go through the side door," she whispered as she went on tiptoe, "we shouldn't get caught. Let my mother think we're still out, looking for a victim. I don't want her to know we're back yet."

Looking down at her, he stroked her hair and nodded. That was exactly what he wanted; how pleasantly reassuring it was to hear her needs were the same as his. Besides, the poor thing seemed like she still needed comfort. And he would give it to her, a lot of it. Hard, brutal, bone-melting "comfort". He wanted to hear her scream for him, have her moaning as she writhed, impaled beneath him.

His erection twitched slightly, throbbing against her stomach. How long had he been nursing this thing for? His reaction to her was unsettling and beautifully agonising. Nipping at her mouth, he gave her a wicked leer, receiving a blushing pout of a smile in return.

"You want to?" she wondered, touching the bulge under his robes, stroking almost too lightly. He gasped, shuddering. He hadn't been expecting that nor did he wish her to stop.

"Touch me," he growled, tearing off his robes, clutching them in a hand as his arm fell to his side. With his free hand he wrapped her fingers around him and let out a groan, moving against her palm. Relief shivered up his spine, spread out through his body in a rolling warmth that made his knees buckle. He moaned as she stroked him, softly, too softly, teasing him mercilessly. His whine made her stomach ache hollowly, her belly seizing. She felt her sheath contract, slicken as suddenly she needed him. Desire ate at her until she was grabbing his hand, running past the garden, dragging him along with her. He chuckled at the headlong way she charged forward, not even aware of her surroundings, mind focused on one thing only. Naturally he wasn't about to chide her for being blind to everything, even if it would one day put them at risk. No, he wasn't about to break her concentration and make her angry. Her single-minded hunger was cute, endearing. It was all for him.

He watched her body shift under her robe as she pushed him into the house. Her breasts jiggled with the movement and he licked his lips, able to see the sweet curve of her body even through her clothes. That was his, all his, every inch of her. In a moment he'd prove that to her as fully as she would him. Her eyes darted to his and she gripped his hand again, flying through the back halls, up the ancient servant stairs to her room. If a house-elf had seen Miss flitting through the house with a naked man in tow, the pair didn't have any clue. Hopefully they'd be in the kitchens, as they usually were when the family was about. Or working on cleaning any number of the empty rooms. The mark of a good house-elf was never seeing it, only the results of their hard work.

Fenrir idly wondered how long it would take even the Sonder elves to clean up his den. A few years, perhaps? He didn't know if magic, even, could help the place. Not that it mattered. Delphia practically tossed him into the front room of her chambers, shutting and locking the door behind them. She seemed to stall then, shuddering as she watched him walk casually towards her bedroom doors and open them, walking right in like he owned the place. Her trembling whimper was all he could hear as he sprawled out on her clean, comfortable bed. He grinned up at the canopy. How long would it take her to join him? And how long would it take her to strip this time? Waiting, taunting her, testing her, he propped his head up on his hands, relaxing back in the pillows. He could stand to lay here a bit longer, if it meant she had to come to him. Especially since her bed _was_ comfortable. He could even fall asleep right here, hard-on and all. Wouldn't be very fun, and he'd have a bit of a problem in the morning, but the image of her rage as he snored peacefully before she could even get to him was tempting. He snorted with laughter, wondering how long she'd scream for. Perhaps she'd even force him awake, demanding his attentions.

Now that was a thought. How far could he push her, prove to her that she was his? If she didn't wake him, he'd just roll onto her and force her legs apart. However if she did wake him up, it'd prove that her demure, shy attitudes towards him were more of a show than not. Some form of posterity she had to keep up? Only Merlin knew why she'd do such a thing. He just wanted to get inside her.

Shutting his eyes, he listened for her entering the room. So she had finally managed to walk in. He heard her hesitation, her footfalls ceasing only a few feet from the bed. It took quite a bit of effort to keep from smiling. Was she debating something? After a moment he heard a rustling of cloth and her steps again. Damn it, she had taken off her clothes and his playing possum only made it easier for her. She had to get used to him watching, to becoming naked with him.

Her side of the bed sagged slightly and he shifted his body a bit, hoping it wasn't too telling. Warm flesh pressed against his, making him stifle his groan. Then her finger was jabbing repeatedly into his chest as her leg hooked around his.

"Are you sleeping?" she wondered in a teasingly menacing tone. "Wake up Fenrir. I'm not done with you."

Within a blink, Delphia barely able to visually register what he was doing, Fenrir had his arms around her waist, rolling on the bed with her. His eyes opened and he pinned her down, too eager to mate to bother with anything resembling foreplay. Her eyes went wide as he shoved her thighs apart and plunged right into her ready body with a satisfied howl. Her gasp tore through him, her nails digging at his shoulders as she moved with him. She was already lolling on the bed, moaning those breathless, feminine pants he was starting to adore. Every time she gasped for air when doing something redundant had him remembering her under him, writhing for him as he built her up and made her cry out in blissful surrender. He placed a hand above her shoulder, his whole body rocking in unison with hers, filling her frantically as she arched. She couldn't know how perfect she was in these moments, how her body clung to him; it was too natural, too intuitive for any of it to be a conscious decision on her part. Every movement in her was eager and hungry, begging him just a little harder . . . deeper . . . He tossed his head back as he grunted, losing control, taking her hips in his hands. He loved doing this to her, pounding her yielding body until she shrieked, reaching for him, staring blankly as she gasped and shuddered. His hips rolled when she did just that, whining his name, her hips meeting his as he dragged out her orgasm with gentle, slow strokes, having to fight with himself to manage even that.

Finally she groaned, falling back, shivering in the blankets as he became frenzied on her, his pleasure wrapping around him. He was falling, soaring, seizing uncontrollably, his seed filling her as she sighed, nails biting his neck and back. Still plunging within her, his body unable to stop just yet, he dragged in a ragged breath. His muscles trembled and he collapsed with a heartfelt groan, feeling her sheath milk him instinctively as he finished. If she turned out to be always this good, this frantic and wanton, he was going to have trouble doing anything but laying with her. Aneya would have to take over the pack as he endlessly satisfied his body; and Delphia's as well. As it was, her fingers drifted lazily up and down his spine, taking in the feel of him as they rested, absolutely drained.

Her contented sigh thrilled him and he didn't know why but it felt delightful. She relaxed then, her hands resting on his lower back, her legs falling to curl about his. He felt her foot rubbing against his calf. It was like being petted, but in a good way. Her head turned and she smiled at him, her eyelids drooping in satisfaction. He managed to move a bit, gathering all his energy to just roll over, still looking to her. She shifted on the bed, going up on her side, dragging her nails up and down his ribs, his hip, then up his belly. He grunted at that; it almost tickled and he wasn't ticklish. Her lazy grin tore at his chest, made him grab her and haul her closer, resting his forehead against hers.

"Feel better?" he rumbled, rubbing the silken hair at her temple with a thumb. She nodded and hummed, sounding utterly gratified, completely pleasured.

"A lot better," she breathed. Stretching a bit, flexing her toes, she snuggled into him. He turned slightly, draping his body partially over hers. Another smile touched her lips and she sighed, her eyes shutting.

"Tired?"

She grunted in return, snorting a little laugh. "Exhausted. After work I spent hours duelling with Jaeger."

Fenrir hissed, wincing slightly. "Ohh, he's a tough opponent. I've seen him fight; nasty piece of work. Your mother's always been bloody proud of him."

Frowning a bit, she shrugged and opened her eyes slightly. "Yeah. He's her pride and joy. Everything a pure-blood should be, brilliant with a wand, greatest killer to walk the earth, blah blah fucking blah."

Outright laughing at that, Fenrir shook his head. "Language, whelp."

Her brows lifted. "Language? You're worried about my _language_, in bed, after killing some poor sod? Should I repeat the _in bed_ part for emphasis? Perhaps the fact that you're _Fenrir-freaking-Greyback_?"

Shaking with mirth, he stared down at her. "You just did."

She joined him in his laughter, wrapping her arms around his neck as she pulled on him, giving herself leverage to plant a kiss on his smirking mouth. "Alright," she murmured, "so I did. You want me to apologise for my _language_?"

"Kiss me again," he rasped, eyes glinting, suddenly invigorated now, "and we'll call it even."

Grinning, she pressed her lips softly to his, almost chastely but completely adoring. He stroked her hair, surprisingly tender. It was an exercise in bliss just touching her, feeling her body pressing alongside his own. No wonder he lost his mind so completely when he filled her belly. She ran her fingers along the rough, grey whiskers on his face, poking his chin then, just gazing at him. It felt nice lazing here, doing nothing but enjoying each other. What could be greater than this? Even killing wasn't as good, Delphia realised in a indolent epiphany, especially if it was to happen without him. With him though, everything was brilliant. She liked sharing with him, being around him. Having a man in ones bed, she knew then, was the greatest feeling one could have, even when doing something as simple as just resting. Why did this seem so wonderful, so perfect? Even seeing her potential future in the Dark Lord's eyes paled when put against this. She wanted to do nothing but lay there all night, touching him as she pleased, learning every nuance of his body. He bristled with energy even as he was tranquil, every movement dangerous and threatening but he was eternally placid with her. When she displeased him or angered him, he still held himself in check, struggling with patience. It would have been too easy for him to lash out at any point, but she felt no fear of him. Here she was at his mercy. If he chose, he could kill her. Rip out her throat, break her limbs, use her body with complete disregard for her pleasure or needs. He didn't though and that got to her. He could do anything he wanted but he was content to just have her wrapped up in his arms, almost purring as she languidly stroked his biceps, or his chest, panting when she made her way down to his stomach. Her fingers followed the darker trail of hair down to his groin, pausing teasingly, her eyes dancing. He could have made her touch him, even made her want him and accept him in her again. But he didn't; he _liked_ this, as much as she.

Nuzzling his chest, she hugged herself to him, feeling his hands rub her back. Oh, that felt nice. She murmured into his skin, then sighed in his throat, her head tipping back. His hands gripped her arse and he pulled her harder against him, cradling his hips between her legs. A girl could get used to this, and fast. Already she felt herself yearning for him. He taunted her, teased her, dragged out every reaction from her as endlessly as he could. It shouldn't have felt this good, but it did.

Why shouldn't it though? What was wrong with pleasure, especially in their world? Everything was changing and would change. A war was on the brink of explosion. Didn't everyone deserve some peace and respite when they came home? Or at least didn't they deserve to find it somewhere? Enjoy it while they could? Was this truly endless, then, or was she just something for the moment?

Withdrawing slightly with a frown on her face, Delphia's eyes scanned Fenrir's. Surprise worked slowly over his features until he was stroking her hip, questioning her silently with his gold eyes.

"Fenrir? I wanted to ask you something," she whispered, idly petting his side.

He grunted and huffed, looking exasperated. "What is it, whelp?" he rumbled, irritated that she had interrupted him in his basking. He had been enjoying himself, he really had. His mate curled up with him, letting him touch her as he wished? What was better than that? And the prospect for another mating was edging at his mind, lulling him comfortably.

She cleared her throat and glanced away, giving him pause. This was serious then, was it? Or was it one of those female games he had never bothered to learn about, let alone master?

"Well," she stared, pulling away a bit more, finally being dragged back to him when her warmth left him completely. A grin flashed briefly on her face and she settled her head on his arm, studying his face. "My mother, she . . . she warned me about you."

His brows lifted and he looked thoroughly amused. "Did she now?" he rasped. "About how I'll somehow manage to _infect_ you without being transformed? Even Preia should know I'm not capable of that, no matter what else I'm capable of doing."

Delphia sighed heavily, giving him a womanly glower. "No, Fenrir. Well, sort of, but she knew you wouldn't do anything like that. I think. No, I mean . . . she warned me about you and you, um, touching me."

Snorting with laughter and shaking his head, he gave her a wry look. "Me? Touch you? A pure-blood? A young, delicious girl like you with the sweetest arse I've ever seen, at my beck and call and she thinks I'd _touch_ you? You're insane, Delphia. Utterly, completely mad."

Groaning in frustration, she pounded her fist gently into his ribs. "Fenrir. Stop it."

He grinned. "Making you hot, whelp?"

Another feminine glare. "Even if you were, that's not the point."

"So you're saying there's a chance that I could be."

Biting her tongue, fighting the smile and failing, she ended up sighing resignedly. "She scared me a bit, I think."

He grunted in return, eyeing her. "How?"

"Well, because she said . . . she said something like you being able to turn me without having to bite me."

Snorting, he shook his head. "I have bitten you." Touching the marks on her collarbone, the ones that would never heal, he smirked. "A few times."

Rolling her eyes and baring her teeth in challenge, she pushed him slightly. "Fenrir, for one minute be serious. I want to know what she's talking about."

He wanted to hit her for the defiance but restrained himself. She didn't deserve that; not when it was actually his fault. Why did she have to try and be serious now? When he was finally enjoying himself after how many decades? It was annoying and he just wanted to bed her again. Or sleep. But the former sounded much better to his mind and body, even as he knew he was tired.

Groaning unhappily as he rolled over onto his back, sprawling out, Fenrir stared up at the canopy for awhile. "What else did she say?" he growled, moving his eyes towards hers to take her in. If he was going to get anything more from her tonight, then he had to get this over with.

She shrugged at that. "That men can turn young girls or something without actually, you know, _turning_ them and . . ." she trailed off, punching his hip then with a snarl. He winced, more at her fury and the expression on her face than the stinging in his skin. "Damn it!" she snapped, hating being coy. She wasn't stupid; she knew what her mother had been saying. Why couldn't she just be open with him about it? It was easy enough to open her body to him, so why not her mind? Words were so much more difficult for her to share with him, with anyone. She had to though. "Damn it, Fenrir, she said you're using me. And I want to know if you are."

He snorted and frowned. "No, Delphia," he said at length. "Your petty pure-blooded concepts of using are not involved in this." It was so much more than using. He needed her. At the very least, he had to mate with her. It was written in the moon, in his blood. Since he first spoke to her she had inflamed his body like no other little whelp. Not even a fully grown, experienced woman had driven him as completely insane as she did. And was doing now.

She returned the frown. "Then what is this? Why did she warn me? What was she saying? And wouldn't you say that even if you were using me?"

He had to laugh, it rumbling deep in his chest before bursting out of him. She was on quite the tangent, wasn't she? Where it had come from, he didn't know, but he had to fix it fast or his chances of fucking her again were going to sharply diminish.

"Yes, I would say it even if I was . . . manipulating is a better word. But you're enjoying it anyway, aren't you, whelp?"

She had to agree, blushing as she muttered an affirmative, ducking her head so he couldn't see her shamed face. Reaching over, he tipped her chin up so he could look at her, smiling at what he saw.

"Ah, I thought so. Did darling Preia specifically say me?"

Delphia shook her head, trying to remember what her mother had been going on about. "Well. No. We were talking generally of you, then she said that men do this sort of thing."

He laughed some more. "If men do this sort of thing, then don't women as well? Delphia," he grunted, flopping onto his side to better look at her, "just get it out so I can have you again."

Her cheeks went even more flaming red, her chest beginning to burn with the furious flushing heating her face. Why did his words have to affect her so? Why were her words such a tangle on her tongue? "Alright," she whispered, worrying her lip. "I wasn't thinking any of this before, didn't even consider it. But mother said –"

Before she could finish, Fenrir broke in, mocking her. "Mother said, mother said. You're developing a complex," he huffed, scowling. "If your mother said men, and she did, then are you going to believe that every man is out to get you? The Sonders are notoriously paranoid, I know, but that's a bit extreme even for your family. How are you to ever _breed_ if you think that way?"

She shrugged. "Mother doesn't want me to."

He rolled his eyes. The day this girl had a single thought of her own, he'd celebrate. "And what do you want, whelp?"

Another shrug, her chin dropping until he forced it back up once more. "I don't know," she mumbled. "I don't. And it's best not to consider things like that."

That had slipped, and he had only meant it as a hypothetical. Something for her to balk against Preia with. It was dangerous to bring up though, and he found himself cringing along with her at her words. "Your mother wasn't being specific," he grumbled after a time. "You could have been taking lessons from Malfoy, or Parkinson, or shite, _Snape,_ and she'd be warning you. She's being careful, cautioning you before you enter the big, wide, scary world," he went on, emphasising it by gesturing largely around the bed. "Besides," he grumbled, settling a bit, "it's too late for her warnings. You schemed and plotted all this so you could get what you wanted. She'd applaud you. Why worry now?"

Delphia took a bit to ponder this, realising after a few moments of thought that he was right. Once again, she was falling prey to her own game. Her mother knew nothing and was merely being protective. She tried to remember the words her mother used, settling on something that was at least close, and began dissecting. Her brow furrowed then, her green eyes going to Fenrir, looking confused.

He sighed heavily. Perhaps sleep was the better option for the night. "What?" he barked, tempted to just haul her to him and shut her up.

"My mother called me a young girl and a woman in the same breath." She paused. "Why is that?"

How the ruddy hell would he know? "Because men think of you as a little girl and all the better for it," he shot out, completely at the end of his tether now, gesticulating wildly, "and everyone else sees you as a woman." He almost added "There, are you happy?" but somehow restrained himself. Merlin she enraged him sometimes. Then her fingers were on his chest again, playing with the curls that ran down his torso and he forgot his anger, drawing her in as his mouth went to hers. Enraging, invigorating; it was all the same. His mind wasn't even bothering to make coherent sense any longer, just as long as she'd keep simpering and wriggling against him like she was, whimpering in the back of her throat. He growled, moving over her, stabbing his tongue in her mouth. She really was delicious; his blood pulsed into his loins and he realised he was bucking over her, trying to find purchase. He just wanted to be inside her body, locked against her. Nothing in him had patience for games, especially when his whole being was clamouring for her touch. She sighed under him, her hands pressing into his back.

Their mouths parted momentarily and she stared up at him, slightly bemused.

"Do you see me as a young girl?" she wondered, her voice thick and husky. Her eyes were sultry and positively begging him as she licked her lips, moving into him for more.

He grinned at that, brushing her mouth with his as he spoke. "For Merlin's sake, Delphia, I'm your _mother's _age. What do you think?" At her scowl, he shook his head. "Will young woman do?"

Sighing woefully, she wrapped her limbs around him and squeezed. "You're impossible," she murmured, opening her mouth to flick his tongue with hers.

He groaned. "No more than you, whelp." His hands found her hips and he silenced any more of her pointless chatter with a kiss that had her gasping for air. Then she was crying out, staring at him as she wailed. He thrust hard, pounding into her, rutting her like some mad beast in heat. Which, he admitted to himself with some pride, he practically was. She had to stop this questioning, had to find her own place apart from her mother and take what she wanted; she had already begun, now she had to follow it through. In him was the perfect cure for that, and it became evident in her flesh as his name tumbled from her lips, her body trembling beneath his. If this was using a woman, then punish him for it, because he wasn't going to stop. At least, he wouldn't until he howled her name to the moon and fell atop her, sleep engulfing him as comfortingly as Delphia's arms surrounding him.


	26. Chapter XXV: Shifting Power

Hey guys!! Its been awhile... I thought everyone had lost interest, but apparently not ^___^; Well, can't remember if this chappie was edited (post-beta), but I hope so. If not, no biggie; it'll get worked over later, I suppose. Or someone can point out the errors XP Enjoy! And please review n__n

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Chapter XXV: Shifting Power

The sun was barely on the horizon when Delphia woke up the next morning. She wouldn't have normally opened her eyes and jumped slightly with a start, but when she rolled over, she had slammed into something very hard and warm. Startled, her eyes flew open and she was staring at the side of Fenrir's face. He was slack-jawed and snoring, his arm flung off the side of the bed, blankets twisted in his legs. She had to suppress the giggle, not wanting to wake him just yet. They still had time; no house-elf would dare enter her room for another few hours. He could rest for a little while before she made him leave, kicking him out the window. The image that flashed in her mind made her cover her mouth, snorting with suppressed giggles. Calming her early-morning mind, she just watched Fenrir sleep for awhile, trailing her fingers up and down his arm, listening to his grunts. Why was she so awake? Was it because she had a solid, good night's sleep? While that might have been true, there was something tugging at the back of her mind. She had to do something before work. Did she? What was she forgetting? Frowning, suddenly having to go pee, she crawled out of the bed and headed for her washroom. Fenrir didn't move, just continued to snore a bit louder. Stepping into her washroom and shutting the door behind her, she went to the loo, and stopped short in front of the mirror.

There was blood still flecked on her flesh. She really was a mess, not to mention her hair was horrible and she knew she stank. Even she could smell Fenrir all over her and while she didn't mind, there was the slight niggling that other people might take notice. That was all she needed, was for her mother to hear on the grapevine that her daughter had lost all semblance of hygiene recently and that she smelled like an animal because of it. She sniffed at her arm; though the blood was dried, she could still faintly detect it. It was like a film at the back of her mouth, something that itched with reminder. The major smell, though, was dirt and sweat. And it didn't smell bad; at least to her it didn't.

Sighing resignedly, she hopped in the shower, wanting to make this quick. At the very least she could get the worst of it off, covering up anything else with perfume. Besides, she was a bit grimy from killing and being with Fenrir. Her skin and hair needed a good scrub, even if it was fast and somewhat perfunctory. He might even like the smell of her soap; he certainly seemed to enjoy burying his nose in her neck or hair. Washing out her hair after rinsing her body clear of suds, she then stepped out of the shower, turning the water off. There, that wasn't so bad. Grabbing a clean towel she dried herself, padding back into her room, her bare feet barely making a sound. He was still sleeping. She'd have to wake him in a bit, send him off so she could get an hour's rest before her elf came to wake her.

Fairly dry and having no where else to go, Delphia tossed the towel aside and hopped back into bed, sitting there as Fenrir groaned. He rolled a bit into the sag she made, his eyes fluttering before opening suddenly.

"Whelp," he rasped, his voice heavy with sleep. He stared between her slightly parted legs, silent for a few minutes. She just arched her brow, watching him.

"Greyback," she returned, making him smirk, his golden eyes lifting to look in her face.

"So proper, aren't we?" he mocked, flinging himself back across the pillows, deciding he had to get a bed like hers. While his bed had a certain _je ne sais quoi_, and definitely matched the décor, this was much more comfortable. His was to sleep in, because he had to, because the floor was slightly less plush. Hers . . . he could laze in it all day. He let out a contented sigh, a loud, forced one, his eyes slitting to hers.

She shook her head at him. "You're incorrigible."

Grinning, he scratched the back of his head and squinted up at her, studying her face. "No worse than you, whelp. Didn't your mother teach you it's rude to not say good morning?"

He was awful. She couldn't help the woeful laugh.

"Why do I insist on keeping you around?" she murmured, quirking a brow.

He just looked down his body, smirked, then returned his look to her eyes. "No idea," he breathed lowly, a smug little smile toying at his mouth.

She really laughed now, turning her head away as she set her jaw, trying to act composed and unamused. Naturally she wasn't fooling anyone, especially him. He leaned up on his arms, peering into her face, his expression a work of feral curiosity.

"You're even blushing," he informed her roughly.

Why did she have to do that so much around him? He always made her borderline embarrassed, delighting in their flesh even when she knew she shouldn't feel this way. It was as if her mind was reminding her body of what it was supposed to be doing. A proper lady, a proper pure-blood woman, did _not_ chat in bed with an infamous werewolf after sleeping peacefully at his side. And one did not sleep peacefully with said infamous werewolf after welcoming him eagerly into her body. Ohh, but it always felt so _good_.

He sat up and continued to study her face. Finally he grunted and glanced away, seeming to examine her meticulous room. Like everything else in the manor, it was _just so_. Perfect and pristine, smelling lightly of jasmine, every bit of metal sparkling, the dark wood gleaming warmly. It didn't feel much like a home to him. Definitely nothing like a den. If he randomly started throwing things around, leaving her crap in piles every which-way, it might have taken on more of her personality. At least it'd seem real. He wondered how she'd react to coming home to her room, suddenly a trashed mess, with him slumbering in the middle of the chaos, exhausted after a day's work.

Her enraged shrieks would be more than worth it. She was a lot of fun to goad.

"You have to go soon," she finally whispered, peering up at him from under heavy lids. There was something in his look that had her reacting, her body softening as her breathing deepened. She wanted him again, even for just a moment, but it was too great a risk. If her elf came up early, or if they lost track of time, it could be disastrous.

He grunted in return, debating leaving her bed, not really wanting to as she looked at him like that. Her chest was heaving, her belly and hips rolling. Did she even know what she was doing, or was it still purely instinctual in her? He wanted to slip his hand between her thighs and find out, to feel if she was merely tired, or as ravenous for him as she usually was. It would have been too easy to slide his fingers within her, watch her as she shivered and moaned for him. He felt his body reacting, the surge of hot blood. His fingers tingled, itched, watching to reach over and start stroking her until she was writhing at his mercy.

Delphia was too tempted, too eager to just have him here, now, damn the consequences. Biting her lip and looking away she tried to settle her mind, trembling as she felt the bed shift, the warm presence of Fenrir pressing along her. Heavy breath fanned her neck and she found herself crumbling, whining as she arched. This wasn't fair, it was torture. All she could think about was having him inside her again, humping madly until the bed threatened to break. Letting out a low, tormented groan, she pulled away slightly and shut her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. She felt his hesitation, heard the little growl of anger.

"Not now, Fenrir, please," Delphia managed to get out, forcing her eyes open, looking at him. She sighed breathily, her muscles going weak. Once again she was panting, unable to tear her eyes from his. She slouched slightly as she gazed at him, silent a moment as her hips moved of their own accord.

He looked down and lifted a brow. "Someone's confused."

That was enough to jolt some semblance of thought into her hazy brain. She cleared her throat uncomfortably and turned her head. "I'm not confused. I want you –" His sudden movement broke her sentence in half, the words dropping from her mouth when he lunged with an eager grunt. Lifting her hand, she looked pleadingly back at him and he halted at her miniscule gesture, still mid-lunge, wavered off-balance, then toppled over with a frown. He glowered up at her then picked at the comforter, scratching the convoluted designs with a pointed nail.

"I can smell you," he taunted in a low rasp, eyes glinting as he stared challengingly into her face.

She shivered at that. It was almost insane how in tune his instincts were, somehow possible for him to be able to detect every nuance in her body language and to read her scents like her adored books. Something like that shouldn't even be allowed; it was invasive. How was she to ever keep anything from him, how could she say no if he knew what she really wanted? He could _make_ her lay with him, force her down on the bed because he knew it was what she wanted and that she was merely denying herself. Fenrir Greyback did not seem the sort of person to ever deny himself anything and didn't seem to agree with it on principle.

Shutting her legs firmly to the point of her muscles aching, Delphia set her lips in a determined line and looked right at him. He was so aloof lazing there, so calm and patient. His smug, knowing smile enraged her, mostly because he was right.

"Fenrir, _please_. You have to leave; my elf can't find me in bed with anyone, most especially you."

"We have an hour," he breathed, rolling over onto his back, sprawling out.

"No, I have an hour. I have to pretend to be sleeping and you still need to escape. Please."

Snarling, looking as if he was ignoring her even as he did what she asked, he leapt up from the bed and stalked angrily towards the window. He had to humour her even as her scent drove him mad. She was correct, unfortunately, though his ego barely allowed him to acknowledge that. However, the risk of getting caught was, as always, impending and he had to let his brain rule his body for once. Stealing her off wasn't a choice, either, as the Dark Lord wouldn't be pleased with His werewolf ally taking one of His people. Not because the pseudo-man cared about His Death Eaters or His followers, not even the truly loyal ones like the Blacks, or the Malfoys or even the Sonders. No, His problem would be with Fenrir taking what was the Dark Lord's; taking without permission.

And his chances of convincing the not-quite-man of giving the girl to him were near non-existent. The more the Dark Lord knew how much Fenrir wanted Delphia with him, the more the Dark Lord would use that as a torture and a bribery for more loyalty, more work, more killing. Delphia would be something he'd never quite earn.

For now, it was better to do as she said. And he hated that, giving up his control, bending to the whim of someone, anyone, especially a wizard or witch. He turned his head, snarling, eyes blazing with near-hatred and he saw her there, in the mussed sheets, hair still damp from her shower. She used soap. He could smell that too. The man in him said it smelled nice, the wolf said he'd rather her just rinse with water. He liked the smell of her flesh.

His anger dissipated as he took in the bite and claw marks on her body, his own art on her skin, his signature of ownership. He could still scent her need, her hunger as it coursed through her. And he realised it wasn't her fault; he couldn't blame his own mate. She was giving him sane council, as any good Alpha female would, no matter how much he balked against such an idea. That's what they were there for, other than baring their male's young. To make sure his thoughts were for the pack, rather than his own unchecked ferocity. That she even stood up to him made his hatred soften. She trusted him. No one but his pack _trusted_ him. She would have allowed him to do as he wished, but she had asked him not to.

They were wasting time. He was wasting time. There was no doubt of facts, no matter how he loathed them: he had to leave. Leave, and then when would he see her again? There was much she still had to learn about killing, much about slaughter. Techniques for torture, for prolonging pain and bleeding, to bring out the sweetest agonized chorus from the throats of her victims. At least they had that.

"Two days," he rasped, opening the window and slipping gingerly out. This time he wouldn't plummet to the ground below. He hoped. He had spent some time rehearsing this in his mind, but doing it was a bit different.

She nodded in a slightly defeated manor. "You're mad at me, aren't you Fenrir?"

He opened his mouth then narrowed his eyes, glaring at her as he went to bark out a vehement _yes_. But he bit it off and just stared for a moment.

"What makes you say that?" he grunted, tearing his attention from her as he tried to find his footholds and summon up the nerve to do this. He really didn't want to fall again.

"Other than the fact that you look about to tear my head off?" she whispered timidly, watching him work his way uneasily onto the ledge, smiling faintly to herself at the sight. He looked almost like a teenager somehow, a nearly innocent, youthful fear or curiosity flashing over his features. But Fenrir Greyback was afraid of nothing. Right?

"Yeah," he snapped, balancing on the balls of his feet, rocking his body a bit to test his purchase, "other than that, whelp." She obviously had something to say, and he was finding that it was better to just let her get it out in one go, than prolonging her ceaseless chatter. The girl loved to talk. Thankfully she loved other things as well, things he was much more amenable to, which helped balance out the annoyance nicely.

"Well," she began uneasily, shifting on the bed into a more comfortable position as her hands fidgeted before her, "I can . . . kind of _smell _it." She went red with shame and he almost did fall when he started laughing at her. The poor thing didn't even know what she was, did she? Had she studied Ferals at all in her endless mounds of books? Did the wizarding world know themselves what she was? Most witches of her station would have been mortified by what they did together; she usually only went a proud pink (which always set to inflame him further). At this though, the very thought of being able to scent an emotion, being something other than a pristine little witch, unsettled her and made her humiliated. That she could even identify the smell showed promise in her. She should have been as satisfied with her budding skills as she was whenever he was done with her. Somehow, he knew, and for some bizarre reason, having her embrace her literal Feral side would be much more difficult than her figurative one.

"I'm not angry at you," he finally grunted, turning his head as far around as he could to sweep the lands for potential threats. Returning his attention to her, he gave her an exasperated look. "I'm just angry in general." He confirmed what she had been scenting without coming right out and saying it. It was more natural, in a way, and it seemed to help her digest her steadily growing abilities as she only gave him a nod and a wan smile.

"Alright," she breathed, "I just don't like the idea of you being mad at me."

He huffed, humoured. "Couldn't imagine _why_."

She shrugged nonchalantly, scratching at the back of her calf. "Because you won't – won't have me like you usually do if you're mad."

Staring at her, he was tempted to laugh outright once more. He was thinking more along the lines of him being a werewolf. Usually people would take that as a danger sign on its own, let alone with him angry. She really didn't seem to care. It was apparent that not only had the Sonder paranoia rubbed off on her but so had some of the characteristic lunacy.

Or she trusted him. That kept rubbing at him. Who in their right mind would trust him? Either way, she had to be insane, so he was correct no matter what.

"As much as I enjoy hanging out the window," he commented dryly, making her giggle, "I think I should leave."

"Alright," she sighed, waving him away as she lay down in her bed, still smiling at him, "you can go now."

"I'm so glad I have your permission," he jeered as he bent his knees, preparing for the drop and quick grab of the ledge.

She snickered but said nothing more as she closed her eyes. He was definitely entertaining, she could give him that much. And she didn't want to watch him go. She didn't like that he had to leave her. It would have been so much easier to just become part of his pack, or at least have her mother's permission. But the Minister would admit Potter was right before Preia ever allowed anything that unseemly in her home. So she didn't watch him leave, didn't watch him manage to land softly on the ground, still upright. Nor did she see the figure racing across her family lands to a safe Apparation point. Instead she kept her eyes shut, allowing her mind to drift and dreamt lucidly in her half-sleep.

Work was as thrilling as usual. Delphia and Katrine were at their desks, idly poking at parchment and pretending to write whenever Umbridge stuck her head into their office. Eventually Katrine went over to Delphia with her chair and a piece of paper, settling down beside her, making it look like they were concentrating on something together as she placed hang-man before them. Quirking a brow, Delphia just chuckled as she looked at Katrine and wrote down a letter. Katrine crossed it out and drew a hollow head on the noose.

"Are you going to animate him so he struggles and thrashes in his death throws?" Delphia wondered teasingly, eyes dancing. Katrine smirked and nodded with a broad grin, gesturing to the paper. They kept playing, a few rounds back and forth, the hang-man suitably dying whenever they failed.

An inter-Ministry memo for Umbridge came fluttering down on Delphia's desk. The game paused as Delphia sighed and plucked the paper airplane up by the tip of a wing. What amazing thing had happened now? A new law banning the mention of Potter's name between nine and five on weekdays and that Umbridge should be there for the celebration party? Flicking the memo open, Delphia scanned it lazily, her brows lifting steadily until she got to the end.

"What?" Katrine whispered, edging closer to read the memo.

Delphia jerked it to the side so Katrine could better see. "Potter's disciplinary hearing. In front of the Wizengamot as Umbridge and Fudge requested. Affirming their request, blah blah blah, legal jargon, queries as to health, good day, blah blah blah."

Laughing huskily, Katrine took the paper and shook her head. "But Dumbledore will get sway; he's only chief Warlock. Isn't this _bad_ for the Ministry, having Potter tried by his only, and also extremely powerful, supporter?"

Delphia shrugged and took the parchment back. "Well, it was for Umbridge, so she can answer that for us." She was curious herself. Who brought a student before the Wizengamot for under-aged use of magic? It was usually a slap on the wrist, especially with everything else Potter had ever done. Perhaps that was why they were bringing the system down on him, to finally teach him the lesson that had never been given. He wasn't invincible or omnipotent, no matter what Dumbledore had said. Or whatever mythology his ego had built up around him made him feel. He was a boy, still a child by law, and had to be (finally) informed that he couldn't get away with his stunts any longer.

Why hadn't they done that earlier? Or was it more, and not a lesson, but what it plainly was? A real trial by the Wizengamot so they could do what, get rid of him? Stick him into Azkaban for under-aged magic? That was stupid. Maybe they'd just expel him. Did anyone in the Ministry have that power though, other than Dumbledore? There was no way Dumbledore would allow this sort of travesty to happen. He would have fought against bringing any child, especially his favourite, before the full court. Especially for such a minor charge.

Delphia's mind was spinning as the thoughts racing in her mind became circular, completely bewildered as to the current state of events. Her eyes flickered to the memo laying out on her desk. She folded it back up and set it aside to give to Umbridge whenever she appeared. Apparently she was doing something important in her office and had left stern instructions not to be disturbed. But the memo had said she and Fudge _requested_ this change of venue, and had got it; how, Delphia had no idea. Dumbledore wouldn't have let it happen under any circumstances.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Delphia snatched up the memo and headed for Dolores' office. As she went to knock on the door, Katrine made a furtive motion for her to stop, looking rather startled. Delphia gave her a look and a shake of her head, holding up the memo and waving it as she rapped her knuckles against the wood. She tried the door again when there was no movement or sound and a moment later it opened a crack. Pressing the door open slightly, wondering why Umbridge had suddenly become private, wondering what this memo was about, she peeked into the room and put on a sheepish expression.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am, but a memo came for you," she whispered, batting her lashes. The toad didn't look pleased. After a lengthy pause, however, she waved Delphia in.

"What is it about?" Umbridge snapped, returning to her paperwork. Delphia recognised legal work when she saw it, and that's what Umbridge was doing. She let her eyes drift over the short-form notations. Right-side up it was difficult enough to understand, let alone trying to read the scribbles upside-down.

"It's about Potter's change of venue before the Wizengamot," she muttered as she set the memo at the side of Umbridge's desk. "How, though, and why? With Dumbledore the head of –"

She was cut off by a sickly-sweet and all too bitter smile. Delphia gulped, wondering if she had pushed too far. But it was, for once in her life, an honest question. She really wanted to know how this would help the Ministry's (ergo her own) cause. It didn't make sense.

But what Umbridge said next did, clicking everything into place.

"Didn't you hear, dear?" Umbridge next-to purred. "Dumbledore was relieved of his post about a week ago. He's gone senile, especially with supporting that maniac boy, and had to relinquish his status as Chief Warlock."

Coughing slightly in disbelief, eyes going wide, Delphia just stared at Umbridge. With Dumbledore gone, the Wizengamot was close to being the Ministry's puppet. Anything they said was legitimate and couldn't be argued as they were the highest court. If Potter was destroyed there, then it was all over. A smile crept across her face and she bowed her head, nodding respectfully.

"It was about time someone did something about that doddering old fool," she breathed, fluttering her lashes as she looked back up at Dolores, who continued to smile in that sickening way. "Anyway, all I wanted to do was give you your memo." Giving the toad-woman a pleasant, enchanting smile, Delphia turned and walked out of the office. Her expression wasn't nearly as sweet and childish when she returned to her desk, thinking hard.

"Well?" Katrine squeaked, rushing over. "What's going on?"

Delphia snorted and shrugged. "Dumbledore isn't Chief Warlock anymore. He got booted out." What else was there to say? She couldn't go on, clarify what it meant and how it impacted her side. Especially with Potter about to be tried before the full court. It was delicious, a sweeping victory for the Dark Lord. Potter would be out of Dumbledore's clutches all year, which gave them a full year to finally destroy him. It would be feinting, parrying, continual attacks until they succeeded; but they _would _succeed.

Katrine let out a long exhalation. "Jeez," she finally breathed. "So . . . what does that mean?"

Turning to her, Delphia gave her a tight smile that she had to fake, but looked utterly sincere. The benefits of growing up with her mother. She knew what it meant. It was one more step to the Dark Lord coming to power, to finally destroying the "boy who lived".

Fighting the grin, the conniving narrowing of her eyes, she shrugged half-heartedly.

"I have no idea."


	27. Chapter XXVI: Take These Lessons

Here ya guys go! Nothing much to say, except yeah, the sixth movie was a bit of a let down. Then again, I thought it was pretty true to the book (I mean, movie-wise), AND they had far more Fenrir than I thought they would. Fenrir was NOT as he should have been (they should have had ME on that! I coulda made him look real, but effing badass...) but he got more screentime than he gets in the book, so it was fine. Please review!!!! PLLLEEAAASSEEE.

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Chapter XXVI: Take These Lessons with You 

Caring for the pack was easy. It had always been easy and he enjoyed being Alpha. Never mind the typical mind-set about werewolves; they were men trying to deny their natural state. He embraced his bestial side enjoyed his fate as a wolf. And as such he lived as one. A community, a cohesive whole, a group of people he led for their survival. And a mate; every proper Alpha had a mate. It was his place. He was supposed to have a female leading at his side, having and caring for his children. That was the only thing absent from all this.

The younglings played and fought as normal. The Elders gossiped and watched, helping as they needed to. Fenrir just sat there, scowling at himself, picking at his sharp nails. It was another hot, overly dry day. The afternoon was worst of all but that was when they were up and about. Even shade didn't help, many of the pack having to take time in the den to try and cool down a bit. The den was hot and smelled of a hundred wolves. But it was out of the sun and somewhere they could lie down and rest.

His idle thoughts bothered him. Dug at his gut and slashed his flesh. Others should have felt that, felt it at his hands. At the moment, it was only he though. She was supposed to _be_ there, with him, with his pack. Taking on her role because he told her to. It would have been easy to just force her to accept what was hers, what she needed to do, to be. He couldn't though and that was the kicker. He _couldn't_. She was a witch, a Death Eater and a worker in the Ministry. If she just upped and left, it could spell danger for him, for his pack. For her; he didn't like that idea.

He didn't like the idea of not having a proper mate. It was another thing the Wizarding world forced on him. Even when it finally handed him what he needed, it would never give him what he wanted. Thankfully his Elders were capable of taking care of the pack in his stead, his Beta more than able to lead when he was gone. Tomorrow he would be going back to Delphia, teaching her and doing more than that. If he couldn't have her with him, as she should have been, then he could at least have her in some manner. So in a way he'd have what he wanted, but never in completion. Unless they could somehow off her mother. It was completely feasible; on the other hand, it was Preia Sonder. He just couldn't do it. His dead friend's wife should be protected, not killed because she was in the way of what he wanted – it was a thought though. Besides, the Dark Lord wouldn't exactly be thrilled. And most of all, the Sonder brothers would be a tad miffed. Individually they were no real match for him, and when in a really bad mood, he could take on two. The three of them, however, was much less likely. What would be the point of dying in the course of making it easier to have Delphia? In the end, it was less easy as trying to mate with her, as being a ghost just wouldn't quite work out.

He had to chuckle at the image. There was no doubt in his mind that if the Sonder brothers wanted to, they could figure out a way to kill him. Or Delphia could save him, pleading with them to spare his life. Would she go that far against her family? Of course she would. He'd tell her to and she'd do it. That was her place. To obey, to lay with him, to care for his pack . . . and to drive him absolutely up the wall. Merlin she could be infuriating. Strangely enough, he liked that about her. That she could speak to him freely, or as freely as her odd sensibilities would allow; she could stand up to him, make him a pathetic, groaning mass of shivering wolf in her hands. A grin crept across his face. Everything about her and their situation was endlessly frustrating; but at least it was a start. After all, he'd be seeing her in a day.

It was rather late at night. Even without the sun it was still hot, almost unbearably so. As it was, Delphia was wearing rather little, something she wasn't quite used to. Katrine had insisted, however, instructing her on what to wear. Naturally her arms were covered and her skirt modest though she had forgone the usual robes. They were too heavy for this weather. Her clothes itched; all covering was too heavy. She almost envied Fenrir's comfort with his body to prance around naked. That was something she could never do, no matter if everyone else was nude. It just wasn't right. She was still overheated though. Katrine had taken her out to one of the girl's favourite clubs, as she called it, some posh place for witches and wizards to act like wriggling, drunken fools and get laid. Although it had been fun in its way, especially after a few shots of Ogden's. It had defiantly been an experience. Nothing at Hogwarts, and none of the fetes her mother threw, was anything like that had been. She felt sweaty and grimy and just wanted to tear her shirt off and run around in the moonlight.

Something told her that would be dangerous. Her mother had actually allowed Delphia to go out, citing that she was a grown woman and had to learn her lessons without someone holding her hand. Besides, Delphia knew she needed to learn how to socialise better. Her family and the Slytherin dorms didn't provide much opportunity for proper social graces. Not in the world at large, at least. She had been around _people_, lots of people, many who talked to her. Most were male, usually about her age. It wasn't until she had unwittingly shot down the fifth guy that Katrine had approached and gigglingly told her what they wanted.

Part of Delphia had wanted to be disgusted. The rest of her snorted and rolled her eyes. Not all men were that clumsy, were they? Toying with drinks and smiling too sweetly. She already had someone, someone who let her know exactly what he wanted, and informed her none-too-gently of what she needed. Besides, who wanted a random stranger for one night? She still couldn't understand that about Katrine. Not that her mother would have been affronted; she would have sniggered and demanded that Delphia use her unwitting victim at her whim. That's all they were good for. It was just something Delphia couldn't do. She still had a strange bit of fun, dancing like an idiot with Katrine, drawing what she later figured out to be envious, lusty stares.

She could smell the testosterone in there. But it was weak, puling. There wasn't an Alpha amongst them. Perhaps that's how Katrine justified using them for her satisfaction. None of them were worth _keeping_ after a night. It was still enjoyable staying to herself and Katrine, making small talk, exercising the skills she had drilled in her head since childhood. Stand straight, hold your nose up slightly, use your eyes to accentuate your expression while keeping your face blank. That always helped to convey a sense of superiority and sarcasm. Necessities in the pure-blooded world.

They had spent a few hours in the club, dancing and drinking, generally acting like fools. For some reason the men had liked it; no boys she had ever known would have gone for a squirming, flailing idiot. They would have all laughed at her if they had seen her; not that she cared. Still, the contrast was stark. The men from her world, and those of the lesser classes, were very, _very_ different. And she liked neither. Those beneath her were too stupid and crass, those on par were too stuffy and cold. It was either or, no middle ground. The only solace was reaching out beyond all that, finding something entirely different.

The sense of danger pricked at the back of her mind, not a hypothetical of what could happen as a reaction to an action by herself, but a true, real warning of impending harm. Delphia wrapped her arms around her body. This was Muggle London; she couldn't risk Apparation, not here. She had insisted on walking for a bit after she and Katrine had left. Katrine went home, leaving from the designated Apparation point, leaving Delphia to her own devices. She had just wanted to wander, to explore something she hadn't before. She had never been in the Muggle world, never been in the world at large. If it wasn't her manor, it was Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, or Diagon and Knockturn. Her world was tiny, but slowly expanding.

She hadn't wanted to go home just yet. She had just wanted to be, to live for a moment, to enjoy herself without a single string or watchdog. A scent wafted past her on the nearly dead wind. It had to be close; her body tensed. She didn't want to have to go for her wand. The last thing she needed was to be under scrutiny for using magic around Muggles. Her case would, of course, be basically ignored by the Ministry; however, it still wasn't good for anyone go to poking around near her. Besides, her wand was tucked into her skirt and it would be obvious if she went for it. With the lessons she was receiving though, did she need a wand for protection anyhow? Was there a point to risk magic in a Muggle area, when there were other options?

There was a simple choice; turn to face what she could feel and smell, or keep going like nothing was wrong and hope to lose whatever it was for long enough to Apparate. Her lips curled back and she bared her teeth in that old habit that was so natural now, a growl welling up in the back of her throat. So someone wanted to play a game. Whoever it was, was probably Muggle. Even without a wand, she was still better than them. No one could harm her. Mudbloods couldn't _touch_ her, so what could a stupid, worthless Muggle do? It was a simple choice, really. Turn around and tell them to go away. Fleeing like a scared deer would only make things worse.

She did just that, bracing her feet as far apart as her upbringing would allow, crossing her arms over her front and glowering menacingly. The man following her stopped dead and lifted his brows. Then he leered slowly, taking her in as she huffed impatiently.

"I know what you want," the man quipped, eyes shining as he approached her. Delphia didn't move, not willing to waver, to show any fear. Break and they had you.

"Oh? And how would that be?" she wondered, actually a little curious. If Fenrir had said that, told her she needed something, she would have believed him instantly, knowing he was right. No one else could read people like he could, except perhaps other werewolves. And this man was no werewolf. He probably wasn't even a wizard.

"Girls don't walk around the city at this time, alone, in these parts, unless they're looking for something," he returned, stepping up to her, having to look up slightly to stare her in the face.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course, how silly of me. I left my chaperone at home, as I'm not allowed to walk on the streets without a man's permission."

"You gettin' smart with me?" he snapped, leaning into her.

Snorting with mirthless laughter, Delphia kept her face straight as she lifted a brow. "I don't _need_ to get smart with you. I could play dumb and still out-wit you."

"You think you're real tough, don't you little girl. Standing there all prissy and uncaring. I'll make you care." With that he moved forward and grabbed her arm, yanking on her. She yelped, eyes widening, realising in an instant what the impossible was. This was an abstract that one read about, learned of to watch out for, but it never really _happened_. She didn't know a single girl, or one who knew someone who knew someone, who had ever had this happen.

"Let go of me," she snarled, trying to tear her arm out of his grip, losing her balance as he jerked her, catching her off-guard. The tip of her blade scratched gently against her thigh. She was so used to strapping it on every day and having it on her at all times, that she never even considered it. It was something of an ornament, unless Fenrir needed her to use it.

Right now she needed it. That's what it was there for. Allowing herself to fall to her knees, her head bowed, she saw the man's feet come in close.

"That's more like it, girlie," he crooned, making her lip twist in disgust. She lifted her skirt up, ignoring his heavy breathing, the fingers curling in her hair. The shudder of revulsion tore through her, stiffening her spine. Her muscles tensed and she gulped, swallowing down the bile as she felt like vomiting. Stomach in her chest, trying to stop herself from gagging, she curled her fingers around the hilt of her dagger. Some measure of comfort flooded her system, eased her muscles. Told her what to do. Instinct and her few lessons took over as she pulled the blade from the thong, holding it in both hands. Technique meant nothing here. She didn't want to cause suffering, or hear him scream, or watch him die. All she wanted was him dead.

He saw the blade just before it entered his gut. It was a flash of creamy silver in the lamp- and moonlight. The sight meant nothing; but a bursting red warning blared in his subconscious that this was danger. A split second later came the searing heat of flesh slashing open, the sting of his body splitting all too easily. His scream filled the street as Delphia plunged metal through his clothes, his fatty flesh and deep into his innards. She stood in a fluid movement, wrenching the blade as high up as she could, snarling with effort. His cries fell on her deaf ears. She couldn't hear a thing; all she could see was that his mouth was open, his eyes widened in shock and horror. It didn't matter to her. She twisted the blade, rending his intestines, struggling with the knife when she made a wide sweep of his belly, pulling it out. He screeched, hands closing in over the gaping, gushing wound. Delphia stared unblinking at the stream of viscera plopping from under his hands as he struggled to hold his body together. So _that_ was how you disembowelled a person. There had to be an easier way. Her muscles ached awfully from the struggle. She needed a good soak in the tub when she got home: she had overworked herself tonight. Everything was moving so slowly, her mind drifting and having ample time to process everything with a crypt-like calm. Even his blood pooled at such a slow trickle that she could watch the stain in his garments grow, the edge of the puddle beneath him widen. The edges swelled then crawled forward, expanding with glacial grace. A little smile crept to her lips. Sound sleep would do her good; Merlin she was tired. All that dancing was tiring enough, but this too? Way too much exercise in so short a time.

Cleaning the blade absently on the sleeve of the man before he sank slowly down, still squealing and howling, Delphia concentrated and Disapparated with a pop.

* * *

Delphia didn't even think about what had happened when she woke up the next day. The bathwater and a leisurely scrub had cleaned off any blood that happened to get on her, though she hadn't noticed any. She could have missed some, and not only had her muscles actually needed the hot relaxation, but it was good to be sure. Hair washed, body scrubbed, she had collapsed into her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest, nuzzling into it. Before drifting off to sleep, she inhaled deeply and a contented smile flickered across her features. After waking up she had felt completely normal. Her day started as usual, with her house-elf helping her dress and get ready before setting out her breakfast in the kitchen. Delphia ate her fruit and slices of bleu steak with soft cooked eggs ravenously, realising she hadn't eaten much the day before. Breakfast made up for that. The steak was perfect.

Work was boring and routine as usual. All the girls did all day when not pretending to work was talk and bash most of the guys they had seen the night before. Delphia didn't bother mentioning her little adventure; she didn't even consider it gossip-worthy. Besides, mentioning a murder, no matter the circumstances, usually wasn't a good idea. Unless it was to like-minded people who'd want a repeat. She didn't quite get the sense that Katrine was one of those individuals. Even if she was, it hadn't been a big deal. All it had done was prove that Fenrir's lessons were working and that she was a fully capable killer. In fact, it was something to talk to him about. Thankfully she was seeing him every other day, or night, and tonight should have been the night he came calling. Unless he had some sort of pressing business, which she doubted. What could be more pressing than herself?

Apparently nothing, she realised when she Apparated home, walking through the gardens to the front door of her manor. Gathered on the front stairs was a group of men, chatting, although only two seemed at ease. Delphia stopped short, her brows arching as she took in the sight of her brothers and Fenrir, or at least Jaeger and Fenrir, talking like old friends. Fenrir's head lifted and his light brown eyes went to hers; she nodded respectfully, striding over and standing before the men. A moment later Jaeger looked up at her with a sigh.

"Our lessons are off for the day," he muttered, standing and brushing himself off. Makrin and Kieran quickly followed suit, crossing their arms. Fenrir took a moment longer to get up, his gaze flickering over her body.

"Sorry I ruined your fun," Fenrir rasped, not sounding sorry whatsoever, speaking to Jaeger even though he was completely focused on the girl before him. "But it's my turn to play with the pretty little witch."

A blush crept to Delphia's cheeks and Jaeger scowled, glowering at the werewolf.

"That's my _sister_," he snapped.

"So it is," Fenrir returned, jerking his head towards the front door. "And it's my job to teach your sister, and I also get to unnerve you for my amusement." He flashed Jaeger a pointy-toothed grin and followed Delphia into her home, the men tailing in a moment later. They went their ways in the mansion as their sister and "guest" went to her room. Delphia sat on the edge of her bed, silently watching Fenrir as he poked through her things. He didn't seem to be looking for anything; he was just being nosy. A moment later he hissed sharply and withdrew, cradling his hand with a scowl. She sighed and hopped off her bed, going over to him, gently prying his hand away from his body and examining it.

"What?" she wondered, turning his large paw over repeatedly, scrutinizing it for a cut or a burn or something he could have stumbled across. She wasn't quite sure what could have hurt anyone, most especially him, but she supposed some common female items were rather dangerous to an unknowing, unwitting man. There was nothing though, no punctures, no scratches; not even a bruise or blemish. All there was were calluses and scars.

"Silver," he grunted, snatching his hand back and flexing his fingers a few time. "Automatic reaction," he added in a mutter, double checking his skin. "Your whole room is a trap."

She stared incredulously at him. "But you're _human_ right now. Silver can't hurt you."

"I said it was automatic," he shot back. "What is it with you people and silver? Why not iron to scare away some faeries?" He snorted and turned on her, his eyes glinting. "That afraid of werewolves, Delphia, that you'd have your whole room covered in silver?"

She crossed her arms with a frown. "Afraid of werewolves? Yes, positively terrified. Now strip and get in my bed."

He huffed, laughing at her before clasping her face in his hands and drawing her in for a harsh, adoring kiss. "You made your point, whelp," he grunted, tipping her head back, placing a few long, wet licks along her throat. Delphia let out a sighing moan, her eyes fluttering shut when he nosed her collarbone and nipped at her pale skin. Her body shuddered and she exhaled sharply, reaching out for him. She figured it was so she could keep her balance even as she eased his robes off his body. He barely noticed what she was doing, letting go of her automatically. His mouth found hers and he helped her by shaking his clothes off.

"Much better," he rasped, pulling away from her and sitting on the bed. She smiled and gazed at him, her lips swollen and pouting.

"I thought so too," she whispered, barely trusting herself to move yet somehow managing to make it to the bed, sitting down beside him. She moved into him, resting her head against his chest, slightly contorted but absolutely comfortable as his arm settled about her waist. Shifting her weight after a moment, she gently slid into his lap. He just held her there, his arms snaking around her, nuzzling the top of her head. There was a whole night to have her repeatedly; he didn't need to press her down into the bed just yet. She felt so soft and warm against his body. An overwhelming urge to protect, of absolute ownership, clutched at him.

Delphia eventually lifted her head, smiling up at him before timidly running the tip of her tongue against the side of his mouth. She blushed at the sudden interest sparking in his eyes. Being coddled in his arms was enjoyable enough, wasn't it? Did he really need more right now? She'd give it to him, she'd go eagerly into it, but she didn't want to right at this moment. No one ever held her as he was right now, ever made her feel so content and thoroughly treasured. If this was the horror of being a werewolf's mate then she'd take it. And as much as she wished to continue basking in his silent attentions, secure in the firm feel of his strong arms flexing around her, she knew this couldn't go on. There were lessons to attend to, things that had to be done. She had to learn more. And she had questions.

Sighing heavily, Delphia withdrew slightly. Not enough to escape his encircled arms, but enough to draw his attention. He let out a dog-like grunt of curiosity, staring at her.

"Fenrir?"

He sighed, scratching at the back of her robe. "What, whelp?" She was going to talk now? He preferred it when she was silent, or howling for him on her back.

"Can you teach me to fight? Like if someone attacks me?"

His brows arched in surprise and he studied her face. "You mean something like Muggle fighting?"

Shrugging at that, not quite liking the sound of doing something Muggle, Delphia also knew that it was necessary. Wizards only fought with wands and that was something she was trying to avoid.

"I . . . I guess so. Don't you fight? I mean, you're teaching me to kill, can you also teach me how to protect myself?"

Brow furrowing, eyes piercing hers, a frown crossed his mouth. "Did someone hurt you, Delphia?"

A faint smile touched her and she shook her head. "He tried, but I killed him with my dagger. Can you teach me so it won't happen again?"

Nodding even as he snarled, he stood up with her, stripping off her robe and tossing it aside. The robe would only hinder her movements. Besides, he had a head start for later.

"Make a fist," he grunted, holding up her hand as she did so. There was nothing wrong with it; it was a proper fist, thumb wasn't tucked under the fingers like so many stupid people did. That only got it broken. "Draw back," he told her as he stood beside her, showing her what to do, "then throw your body – use your hips, baby – in the direction of the punch, extending your arm as you do so." She followed his lead (trying not to tremble at his husky rasp) and he had her do it again, and again, correcting her each time, fixing her body and movements with gentle claws. Then he had her punching with her left hand which was much weaker and clumsy. It took awhile, but he got her doing quick jabs and feints so she could come in with a stronger right hook.

Dinner was sent up for the pair by a house-elf a few hours into the lesson. Preia apparently didn't want the man-beast at her table, or she didn't wish to interrupt her daughter's odd but crucial tutelage. Either way, Delphia found she liked this much more, sitting on the floor with him, shovelling food in their mouths. She didn't have to play dainty and proper around him; she could just eat and enjoy herself. Even talk with her mouth full. He really didn't seem to care. Nor did he speak much during dinner; he wasn't very talkative normally and he was putting all his energy into his food. All she got when she tried to initiate conversation was a few noncommittal grunts and at best, a murmur. When their meal was done, the dishes disappeared. Delphia watched as Fenrir stood and went to the bed, flopping on it, stretching out with a groan. She smiled and got up, lazing out beside him, his arm curling about her waist. Hand pressing against her belly, he pulled her against him. He sighed against the back of her neck, completely contented and full. Every wolf felt satisfied after a good meal and when he had digested enough, he'd have his dessert.


	28. Chapter XXVII: This is Why

**AN: *SCREAMS IN DELIGHT* **OMFG. As some of you know, my PC died. Others have probably just thought I was a non-posting bitch. So my PC died and I lost ALL of my writing. But just ten minutes ago, on a random COMPLETELY UNRELATED search in one of my email accounts, I discovered something... a backup upload of this entire story. Now, it might not be the *most* updated edited version, BUT it is the ENTIRE thing, with every chapter here. OMFG I was ecstatic. So I had to post a chapter *immediately* for all you Fenny freaks out there XD Enjoy!

Chapter XXVII: This is Why 

A couple weeks had passed. Life, even with Fenrir, was becoming routine once again. Every two days he came to her home and taught her how to fight and how to kill. Sometimes they would go out and murder a random person, Delphia showing a marked improvement with each death she caused. Then after, they'd return to her room and he'd practically tear her clothes off, pushing her in her bed, relishing her surprised gasps at his forcefulness, her ecstatic squeals when he took her at his whim. She was always so eager, so receptive for him, eternally hungry for his body. Afterwards she would cuddle to him, every single time, looking utterly satiated and content. Then she'd fall asleep with a satisfied little smile on her swollen red lips, completely at ease with being cradled in his arms. He would curl up against her, his limbs winding through hers, drifting to sleep with his body protectively blanketing her. If she had ever woken up, she would have found herself quite stuck and unable to move, effectively trapped beneath him. Not that she wanted to go anywhere; she was more than happy to stay put, letting him cover her as he wished.

In the mornings she'd have to force him from her bed to attempt to get him to escape. Half of the time he'd try to lap at the wounds he had made the night before, soothing the bites along her shoulders, cleaning off any of her blood. He liked biting her, loved how her body tensed and bucked when his teeth sank into her flesh. Her hips were also becoming a marred work of rent flesh from his frantic clawing when he found release in her sheath. He'd spend just as much time licking those marks as any others on her body, enjoying her soft sighs and the taste of her blood.

Then he'd leave, forcing them both to wait for another couple days. At least she knew he'd be back, unless it was the full moon. Those nights, she wouldn't mind so much if he didn't come see her. Other than seeing Fenrir and training with him, she had work. And work was, as ever, hellishly boring. Also, as it came to pass, enraging.

Days after the Ministry's spectacular failure by the Wizengamot to get Potter locked up, Umbridge announced with saccharine glee that she was the new DADA teacher for the new school year at Hogwarts. Katrine gave the usual falsely sweet congratulations, simpering over how the school would fare so much better with Dolores there. When Umbridge turned on Delphia, she had just given a confused smile. Wasn't there enough work for the Ministry, especially being the Minister's Under-Secretary? There had to be another choice, someone else capable, someone who wouldn't take away from the Minister.

She had been stupid enough to timidly wonder about Lupin; he had been the best DADA teacher they'd ever had. Umbridge had merely giggled indulgently at Delphia, taking her hand in her own and stroking it consolingly. Didn't she know that Lupin was a werewolf? No werewolf could ever teach at Hogwarts. In fact, with the laws Umbridge herself had created and passed, any werewolf would be hard-pressed to find a menial job, let alone a job worth something. They were half-breeds and beasts, Dolores went on, not seeing the flash of anger smothered quickly in Delphia's eyes. They weren't real people like them and couldn't have the same rights. Actually, they deserved no rights at all. Predators, especially those of wizards, had to be destroyed. The law was a good first step to remove them from the proper world. Then they could take care of them afterwards when everything was sorted.

Of course, how silly Delphia had been. She forced a blush, hung her head and muttered an apology, citing that she had completely forgotten the rumours at the end of her sixth year. Katrine had said nothing, shocked that a pure-blood of Delphia's standing had forgot, when she herself, in her seventh year at the time, still remembered. Umbridge had just tittered and stroked Delphia's hand once more, saying that she and her family needn't worry. The Ministry was doing all they could to preserve proper, upstanding wizarding families, to oust the rabble and get rid of all that harmed their world.

She had always understood what Fenrir was saying but it was an abstract; she had never seen it in action until now. Did Umbridge know that she made her own enemies? That it was because of her, and people of her mindset, that created men like Fenrir Greyback? He would have no one to slaughter, no one to get revenge on, if werewolves were just treated equally. Naturally she said nothing, merely seethed in her own mind, wanting to wash her hands when Umbridge finally left.

Katrine watched Delphia for a bit, silent until they were both settled at their desks.

"I can't believe you forgot."

Delphia's eyes shot over to the other girl and narrowed slightly. "Lupin was good at what he did, no matter how much Snape hated him, whether he was a werewolf or not."

Shrugging, Katrine just gave a half-smile. "He's still a werewolf. Laws are laws. They're trying to protect us and all the students at Hogwarts."

She snorted with a frown. "It's not fair though. The best Professor we ever had in DADA was Lupin – I mean really, you remember _Lockhart_. You'd rather have him again just because he's apparently pretty and not a werewolf? Even though the werewolf was much better?"

Staring at her and shrugging again Katrine eventually shook her head and looked away. "Why do you care? Since when do you stand up for others? Aren't your family and family friends against everything that isn't pure-blooded wizard?"

That stung a little. Not only because it was Katrine saying it and she was generally good-natured and open to everyone, but because she was right. For some reason Katrine ignored Delphia's station, rather than being ignorant of it, liking Delphia for herself instead of liking her because she was supposed to. Now she was using Delphia's station against her. A scary thought occurred to Delphia; if Katrine knew even that much about Delphia's family and social status, what else could she end up figuring out?

"I just think it'd be wiser to give werewolves some rights and freedoms, or else we end up with maniacs like Fenrir Greyback trying to destroy us," Delphia hissed, fingers curling into a fist. She didn't know why she cared so much. It just annoyed her that these idiots cried about being hurt by werewolves, then handed them the ammunition to do even more damage.

"Oh please, Delphia," Katrine snorted as she rolled her eyes. "Werewolves are all like that fiend Greyback. They all kill because they like it and because they need to. Greyback's just worse than the rest. It doesn't mean any of them are good. They should all be destroyed: it'd be merciful to end their suffering."

Snarling and crossing her arms as she shook her head, Delphia just sat in a huff. "Then why do we have Wolfsbane Potion? If a werewolf takes it, they're harmless. So if they're normal twenty-nine, thirty days of the month, then as dangerous as a boisterous puppy when transformed, why are they still treated so awfully? If they're damned if they do and damned if they don't, what's the point of taking Wolfsbane? Why _shouldn't_ they get revenge? Even when they conform, they're still regarded with horror. So what's the point of fitting in?"

"Delphia," Katrine spat, "go to St Mungos. Go see some of the recently infected werewolves and tell me that killing them all off wouldn't be mercy. If there are no more werewolves to infect others, there's no problem and the cycle stops. When we start trying to give them rights the problem will only grow. We have to get rid of them and I think that Umbridge is quite correct with her law. Lupin _was_ a good teacher, you're right. But he could have also ended up attacking students much sooner than he had. The only thing I don't agree with is Umbridge herself taking up the DADA post." She paused and her tone softened to something more like her usual self. "Hogwarts is going to be in for a hell of a year."

Delphia could have argued more, but she didn't think it was wise to press it. It was obvious she was the minority on this topic and if she went any further, people would question her loyalties and why. After all, what did a pure-blood care for werewolf rights, unless they had an invested interest in it? Sure, she'd always been interested on her own but now she had actual emotional connections to the topic. It was so easy to see what Fenrir was talking about, what he balked against. What was the point of conforming, of trying to be a normal wizard, when no one would treat him as such even if he _did_ act like a good boy? He embraced his feral side, what he had been made, because he really had no choice. One could learn to revel in it but one could never be accepted back into the wizarding world under any circumstances. The simpler course of action was to be what you were and use it to your advantage, rather than desperately trying to re-enter a society that would never have you again. All one had to do was look at the failure Lupin had been. He tried to be a wizard and even though he succeeded, he was eventually tossed out completely.

A genuine-looking but completely forced smile came to Delphia's face as she turned back to Katrine.

"Yeah, I'm just glad we aren't at Hogwarts anymore. I'd die if I had to take Umbridge's lessons."

As much as it seemed like it, the Sonder manor was never truly silent. There was always something happening, somewhere within its walls. In the generally unused ballroom, Jaeger was snarling in pain, clutching at his arm. Brilliant green and pink tentacles were sprouting from it, bursting through his clothes and methodically attacking the rest of his body with their suckers. Everything about it stung and hurt horribly, but the sight itself was so odd, so disturbing, that it twisted his angry growls into snivelling screams. He fell to the floor, trying to tear the growing tentacles from his leg as the poison now coursing through his veins caused his head to spin. His stomach churned and his eyes blurred. All he could see was a figure, smaller than himself, rushing over and waving a stick.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Delphia breathed, eyes wide as she tried to clear up the curse. It hadn't gone quite as she had planned, but it had been interesting nonetheless. Even so, her eldest brother was dying, by her hand and that wasn't ever good. After a moment the tentacles receded when she managed a satisfactory counter curse. She gently laid him out on the floor, waving her wand above him as she worried her lip.

"What . . . the hell was . . . that?" Jaeger managed to choke out, panic still gripping his chest and abdomen.

"I don't know," Delphia returned softly, eyes wild and stricken, "I think I said something wrong. Don't die for another minute," she commanded half-heartedly, summoning a house-elf to them. The little elf bowed, dipping low, which neither sibling had the patience for at the moment. "A bezoar," was the first thing Delphia snapped out, "go to my room and into my kit. Grab a little wrinkly black stone-like thing. Bring it back to me. _Immediately_." The elf nodded and disappeared with a crack, Delphia returning her attention to her brother. Dredging up what she could, she slowed the poisons she had unwittingly introduced into her brother's system and then strengthened his immunity to help fight for a little bit longer. It had been so stupid and foolish of her. She still had no idea what she had said wrong, but obviously some pronunciation or intonation had been off. The curse itself hadn't done this, but had been a result of those odd tentacle-things, independently injecting their venom into the body of their chosen victim. When she saw the colouring of the wriggling, writhing growths on her brother's arm, then his odd reaction as they clung to him, she had known what was happening. Anyone who had studied a first year mediwitch text could have told you.

The house-elf reappeared and timidly handed over the nugget in its palm, afraid that it had chosen wrong. But Delphia snatched it up and forced it down Jaeger's throat, watching as he choked it down. Wouldn't that have been something? Try to save someone's life from poisoning and end up making them choke to death on the very thing that would save them. If the bezoar worked. Not all poisons could be cured with it and without knowing the curse, let alone the poison, she had no hopes beyond this. A minute passed, and then two. The elf didn't move, knowing that something was very wrong, unable to leave the scene. Delphia took her brother's breathing to be a good sign. He wasn't dead, yet. It wasn't until he sat up, holding his head, that she was relieved and filled with hope. His eyes were clearing, life colouring his cheeks. She hugged him with a girlish squeal, happy that the bezoar had worked and that he was still alive.

"What was that?" he wondered again, massaging his temples gently. He wasn't dead, but he sure had one hell of a headache.

Delphia shook her head, looking almost mournful. "I have no idea. I did something wrong. I'm sorry."

He snorted and gave her a look. "Stop it. You actually got me, and good, for once. If that had been on an enemy, they'd be dead by now. Try and remember what you did wrong, then use it. There has to be something you've read on that at some point and you managed to dredge it up at the last moment."

Thinking on that, she realised he was probably right. Images of old pictures flickered through her mind and something similar did pop in her head. She had really gone off on that one, hadn't she? Oh well, at least she had something to study tonight.

"I only meant to hurt you," she pouted, watching Jaeger struggle to stand. Standing herself, she reached out and helped her brother get to his feet. He tested his balance for a moment, then snorted in distaste.

"And you'll want to kill your enemies," he retorted, motioning for her to follow him. Trotting along behind him, they went to the family parlour and sank into their usual seats. Jaeger turned his attention back to his sister and studied her for a moment. "Speaking of killing," he murmured, his tone somewhat curious, "how are your lessons with Greyback going?"

She smiled, ducking her head as she shrugged. "Fine. I've killed some Muggles. It's something I can do, and do well. And Fenrir is very good to me," she added a little sternly, giving her brother a hard stare. "He's very patient and very clear in what he wants me to do. So stop worrying; I'm doing fine." Better than fine and she knew it. There was almost nothing greater than the hunt, than feeling the lurch of her victim when her blade, heated by her body, met the equally warm flesh of whoever was to die that night. The first squirt of blood was the best; it always glistened and ran like liquid velvet. People often said that blood was hot but when it trickled down your flesh it was really a cold tickle. She liked that. The first hit of a dagger didn't produce spatter but once she started stabbing and slashing as Fenrir (and herself) liked, the blood flowed like rivers, red rivers signalling the end of a life, the deliverance thereof. Her skin, her robes, every bit of her, would be covered in droplets. They were sticky and moist, drying to a hard but flaky caking over her. Fenrir would take his time picking the bits off her body, his horrendous looking claws amazingly gentle, never even scratching her pale skin. There was something about that he enjoyed, she couldn't figure out what, but it was methodical and mindless. Something of a therapy, almost basking in their mutual violence and the pleasure they gleamed in it. Killing was good and so much better when he was there for her to turn to, to get praise from. She liked it when he cleaned her off, with his hands scraping off the dried rivulets that had oozed down her cheeks, or his tongue when the blood was still wet and chilled on her flesh.

That one was always her favourite. The taste and metallic scent of blood inflamed him so completely that she found herself repeatedly at his mercy as he lapped at her face. He would clutch her, force her clothes out of his way (oh how he loathed clothing) and rut her, howling up to the moon, seen or unseen. His body was always so relaxed afterwards, the smells of death soothing, his mouth always turned into an utterly contented smile. It was in those moments that he found nothing better than to just hold her and lick her, fawning over her like something precious. All his appetites satisfied, he could bask and let go for a moment. Enjoy the pure, revolting carnality that was his mate. She felt perfect and cherished at those times, everything in her life just so, never to go wrong. How could she do anything iniquitous or bad when she was nestled against Fenrir after killing with him, after their bodies had united and they had both howled their song to the moon? She loved looking to him as she spilled the blood of her victim, his screams their concerto. Fenrir's expression was always a mask of extreme concentration, of hungry intent, eyes joyously dancing as they met hers. Her body would fill with warmth and so much adoration for the brutal man standing before her that it hurt sometimes. They shared gleefully in their hunt, revelling in the horror they created together.

Speech jolted her out of her reverie.

"Father would say he was 'gloriously vicious'. I think that's how he usually put it." Sighing, Jaeger studied his sister almost forlornly. "If this is what you're good at, if this is helping you, then I have no issues with it. If Greyback is capable of teaching you, and you aren't being harmed, then I won't balk against it. Just tell me if he talks of turning you, no matter how innocent it is. I can at least speak with him and remind him that you are a Sonder and a Death Eater, not a potential youngling." His eyes narrowed. "Am I clear?"

A little shudder went up Delphia's spine. Those words were always so terrifying. "Yes," she whispered, nodding her head. "But he's made no mention of such a thing. He wouldn't; the Dark Lord _Himself_ already warned Fenrir."

"He's impetuous," Jaeger snorted with a smile. It was almost fond how he said it. "He may 'forget'; especially if you do well. He prefers the young. You aren't as young as he typically turns, but if you have skills, he will want to use them. He might start thinking of this as training for a future in his pack, rather than him teaching you for the glory of the Dark Lord. Father always liked him, so you may be safe on that fact alone; Fenrir is loyal. The loyalty to clan and kin as a wolf. He wouldn't harm Father, and as such, you could be absolutely safe. I don't think he'd hurt you," Jaeger added then, scoffing slightly. "I just want to be sure you're doing fine, and that you'll be alright."

Delphia nodded again, this time more resolutely. "Yes. Of course. I understand." She did. Her brother made perfect sense. She didn't wish to be turned either. In fact, it was the last thing she wanted. If Fenrir made the offer she'd decline, hoping he'd understand that with her station, with her place in the world as it was, she just couldn't do such a thing. Besides, no matter how much she adored the forbidden topic of werewolves, no matter how they fascinated her, and no matter how much she loved her own fierce brute, she didn't want to _be_ one. It wasn't seemly and it would ruin her. Her hypocrisy wasn't quite lost on her, but she couldn't help it. No matter how much her family, and the other families within her circles respected Fenrir, no one would actually join him. She had become the one to get the closest to that, and she'd go no further. Besides, she didn't have to.


	29. Chapter XXVIII: Pack Business

AN: Sooo, another chapter. Here ya go. Just wanted to say thanks for the reviews and positive feedback ^__^ Here's the newest update with the fic: yes, I'm working on it. I'm kinda glad all this crap happened. It gave me time to ignore the fic, grow up, live and then come back to it. WIth that, I had fresh ideas and a new mind. The general themes are the same as they were gonna be (no actual *plot* change) but the way everything develops is, I hope at least, far more realisitic and in character. Far more dramatic now, as a result. Anyway, it should prove to be a good read.

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Chapter XXVIII: Pack Business

Slivers of sunlight shone warmly on the snoring form in the messy bed. The room itself glowed with light filtering in through the dirty but unbroken part of the window, while patches of dark and brightness slitted over the tangled mass of body and blankets. His whole body felt alive even as he slumbered fitfully, heavily, awash in pleasant dreams of murder with a child of the moon herself. It was fanciful, but his mind could dare to tread in such recesses when so submerged in the subconscious. She danced and flitted through pools of blood, a silvery blade crafted from the _bow_ itself in her hand, her feet red and crusted, her body naked and shimmering with sweat and wet crimson paint, taken from a living palate. They always produced one colour but it was so beautiful that he would never tire of it.

She was so pale. As pale as mother moon herself. Her flesh was silken and smooth, decorated and daubed almost delicately with his favourite red. He smiled in life as he smiled in his dream. He was erect; she was taunting him, teasing him, glorying in their wanton slaughter, their endless bathing in the viscera of the worthless. To watch her all day was a treat, a delight he would never cease to enjoy. She moved to him, the blade clattering to the ground as it slipped from her slender, blood soaked fingers. The knife arched and dipped, flinging blood gently before it settled, drowning in their fun which was spilt all over the floor. Then she was bending before him and his body seized as the warmth of her mouth engulfed him. Pleasure tore through his belly –

And Fenrir woke up with an enraged, heart-felt roar, jolting upright in his bed. Always at the best part. Every god damned time he had a good dream, it ended just when it was getting really good. He whined like a puppy denied the comfort of his mother's body and collapsed back in bed, the throbbing ache only becoming worse. This was why he truly needed her with him. To ease the urges that welled up in him, those that she stemmed in a viciously delicious way. His dreams removed her faults, turned her into the perfect creature he wished she could be. No one could ever achieve such a state of existence and he accepted that, but it was nice to fantasise sometimes. The important bits, like her hunger, her blood-lust, her innocent sensuality, were never masked. They were the things he truly adored and wanted. He'd take any fault the moon could throw at him (do your worst), if she'd just stay exactly the way she was.

If she was doing her duty as a proper mate, he'd been able to roll over and get out his desire inside her body. It was for her, after all, because of her. There was no girl sleeping peacefully satisfied beside him, regretfully, nothing but dirty, tangled blankets, ragged pillows and empty space. He huffed a sigh even as his fingers curled around his morning erection. She wasn't necessary for this, but damn it, she felt so much better. His dream still drifted in his mind and he fell into it, needing her ferociously, wanting to devour every inch of her. Such a base hunger couldn't be this complex, but it was. The equation was simple, though the roiling emotions it created, the eagerness for her flesh, were so much more. He wanted to look into her eyes, watch her face as she wailed for him. His grip tightened as he felt his muscles tense. She was so slick, so tight, no matter how many times he filled her. Her body positively sang for him, her fulfillment giving him so much pride and contentment that he was starting to forget how to go without. All he had to do was remember her, see her even if she wasn't there. Her green eyes as they went all wide and surprised at the feelings he was stemming in her, at the rapture he gave her; her luscious brown hair spread out beneath them, snared and damp with sweat. Oh she smelled heavenly when she came, her sweat sweet as it dotted her skin. He wanted to bury his face in her throat and just _lick_. She had no idea how delicious she tasted, how he loved to lap at her, every pheromone and hormone of their mating and her bliss evident in each drop from her pores.

Her nails down his back. He shivered; oh Merlin he relished that. She could become so demanding, so forceful, without even a word. Her body, her scent, spoke more than she did (which was a fair bit, he had to chuckle ruefully even in his rapture), said so much so clearly in a way she couldn't bring herself to express with words. Her breath against his mouth as she panted in small gasps, her hips rocking eagerly for – he couldn't take any more of his mind. Throwing his head back, groaning ecstatically, he pumped his length frantically in his fist. His mind cleared of everything but his sheer pleasure, missing out on only one thing; his mate's body taking his seed. Slumping with a grunt, his hand falling to the side, he snorted and rolled over, sprawling out. She should have been there, crushed under him. Would he ever remedy that, or was he going to suffer with an absent Alpha female for the rest of his days? Could he fix it, and if he could, then how? Convincing Preia to give up her only daughter would be chore enough for any _suitable_ man, and to have her relinquish the girl to him? It would never happen, even if Delphia threw one of those spectacular pure-blood tantrums. He didn't know if she have ever done such a thing and he somehow doubted it. Either way, it wouldn't work.

He had two choices for the rest of his day. Laze in bed and grumble pathetically over how no one was in bed with him, or go see to his pack. Honestly, it wasn't much of a choice. Responsibilities came before his needs, or at least his wants, and besides, he had to keep a close eye on that damnable Remus Lupin. Fenrir didn't trust him as far as he could throw him underwater. The man would disappear at times, sometimes for lengthy periods, then say nothing of where he had been, acting like he hadn't been gone at all. Did he really think Fenrir and his ilk stupid? They could tell time. Heck, he could even read; wasn't that something? He scowled and punched his pillow. Lupin had returned, but why after all this time? The wizarding world at large didn't know of the Dark Lord's return so why would Lupin fear he was on the losing side if there were no technical sides? Naturally now the man knew, had seen his Alpha running off with Death Eater robes on. But what had brought him in the first place? Something had pricked the back of his mind when he had seen the run-down man on his stoop, and it was doing so now. He had meant to be more mindful of his old, new addition to the pack. Other things had conspired, unfortunately, to keep his mind well away from the goings on at home. Conspired wickedly in the form a lithe, randy body eager for every ounce of tutelage he could manage. And he was, naturally, her ever-doting, ever-indulgent teacher.

Right now, she wasn't a problem. Well, she _was_, but not an immediate one. She wasn't demanding his attentions or distracting him from pressing business. Any semblance of duty fled him when she turned her gaze on him. Perhaps it was better that she wasn't here. He could watch his pack, and a certain prodigal son, much better without her distractions. No matter how blissfully enjoyable her distractions were. His body craved her but he could ignore that. There were other things to deal with for the time being.

It was midday, the pack rousing from their collective sleep, most searching out some form of breakfast in the dingy kitchen. There wasn't really much food left; he'd have to raid a house and steal what they needed, and soon. Fenrir made his way down the rickety, once grand staircase and into the living room where his waking Elders were gathered, barely speaking, still sleepy. They nodded to him when he strode through, falling into a chair, surveying the room as it filled with munching teens and children. There always had to be food for them in some form. If they were to grow properly, become strong warriors and great additions to his pack, they had to have more nourishing than just with their minds. His rhetoric and vehement fury couldn't fill empty bellies and make muscles grow. Kids had to eat, and eat a lot. The more bodies he brought into his pack, the more he had to steal. Not that he minded; theft always involved the chance at killing and truly feeding his extended family.

Everyone was beginning to look at him. He seemed lost in thought, a frown toying on his mouth, his golden eyes narrowed nearly to slits. Slouching in the chair, his sharp claws scratching idly at the grey whiskers on his jaw, he wasn't so much thinking as allowing his mind to drift intently. His whole pack was there, minus an ex-wizard. So where was he this time? The boy didn't have a mate or he would have scented that. What else would drag any of them away from the den for so long? As Alpha it was his prerogative to do as he liked so when he was gone, no one questioned it. Besides, they all had to know about his Feral by now. He had a good excuse; Lupin did not. There was no excuse for his continual absences. Both figuratively and literally; he never even _gave_ a reason. Who was he to just up and leave the safety of the den, safety he had come to claim, and then provide no explanation? If he was truly so worried, why did he come here to just leave half the time to be at the mercy of the wizarding world? It bothered Fenrir, to say the least.

A man in ragged robes entered the room and gingerly perched himself on the armrest of one of the couches the Elders were lounging on. He stifled a yawn and even his eyes turned to their Alpha. Fenrir grunted and slowly roused from his mind when he realised it was Lupin, right there before him. So he was, in fact, home. He blinked slowly and studied the man; a man he could never stop thinking of as a boy. Lupin had to be nearing forty now, Fenrir realised with a slight start; Merlin, he thought, he was starting to get old. Had it been so long? He could still remember the Dark Lord's displeasure with the elder Lupin, about his own age, perhaps a bit younger. His child, Remus, was taken gleefully by Fenrir as punishment for something or other. Fenrir didn't ask many questions: he took what he got and enjoyed it. Why bother asking for motivations when he got prey and a new, young addition to the pack?

It hadn't quite worked out that way; the boy had managed to run away, returning to his parents. Fenrir had been forbidden from following. The Dark Lord wanted Lupin senior to suffer with the knowledge that the precious son he was raising was an infected beast, a half-breed. The odds of him leading any sort of normal life were so slim they should have been non-existent and the suffering Remus's father had to go through raising this failure because of a whim was worth more than an outright kidnapping. He had to see his son transform painfully every full moon, crying and whimpering for his mother before becoming a damned beast, hungry for human flesh.

Yet the boy had still managed to go to Hogwarts, even finishing it (which galled Fenrir to no end) and then became a _Professor_, no less. He was a bastard, an idiot and had done the impossible, mostly because of that doddering fool Dumbledore. Remus had turned against what he was to try and be something he could never be. Why? Fenrir couldn't understand the rationale of the obtuse. What made him so desperate to fit in when he would never be accepted? And why was he back now?

Scowling, his eyes focusing once again on the waiting group of wiry, scarred bodies before him, Fenrir shook his head gently. He had enough to worry about with Delphia. Now Lupin was beginning to really irritate him. He could try trading one for the other; he almost laughed at himself. _That_ was being fanciful. And it'd achieve nothing. Besides, he wanted to prove to Lupin that this was where he belonged, that he had finally chosen right by re-joining his brethren, his pack. Had he been around other werewolves before coming back? Got the feel of life living under ghastly Fenrir Greyback before plunging in? Maybe that was what had made him uneasy when Lupin first arrived; the scent of other werewolves, rival packs and individuals. That could have been it but logic had followed, casting true doubt on Lupin, even if Fenrir couldn't quite flesh it all out.

"Do what you like," Fenrir eventually rasped, waving his hand carelessly. He wasn't in the mood for much. The pups seemed as startled as the Elders, and Fenrir nudged a youngling at his feet with his toes. "Go, play with your brothers and sisters."

The pup nodded, eyes wide, and then leapt up. Others joined him and they scampered off, heading for the woods to play hide-and-seek, and to swim in the running water winding through the trees. Anyone over the age of eighteen was still lazing in the room, watching him with their careful but always respectful eyes.

He sighed. "The kitchen is nearly bare. I suggest someone does something about it."

Aneya gave him a disgruntled look. "And you, Alpha? What do you plan on doing?"

In response, Fenrir crossed his arms and looked to sulk a bit, managing to still seem like a king. "I'm staying right here." He paused and became a tad angry when no one moved. "_Go_. Do something."

After a moment Aneya stood and the Elders followed as one mind, leaving the den with no idea what they were doing. Their Beta would instruct them on something, as they were totally perplexed. Before exiting, Aneya paused beside their scowling Alpha and shook her head.

"If she's bothering you this much, why don't you just force her here?"

"I can't," he snapped lowly, "_go_." As Aneya went at his irritated dismissal, the Omega bounded up and gave Fenrir a big, exaggerated hug and a wet, noisy kiss on his cheek. Then he scampered off with the Elders. Though not one of them, not really any part of the pack, he could go anywhere as he was the clown, the peacemaker. Fenrir found himself laughing, smacking saliva off his skin. He had been startled, but that was the Omega's _job_. He certainly didn't feel as surly; he had needed a good chuckle.

His eyes narrowed and focused on the sole figure in the room. He had wanted to be alone, to think. "Lupin," Fenrir barked, edging up in his seat, gaze trained completely on the shabby man before him.

Lupin smiled weakly and slipped down into the couch proper, clutching his hands before him. "Greyback," he returned tightly. He, like the Omega, had no place in the pack. Unlike the Omega, it wasn't because he had a place outside the normal structure, but was just lost within it.

"I would think _Alpha_ would be more suitable from you," Fenrir snarled back, fingers curling and flexing. "You need to learn your place, Remus. Do it fast before I become angry."

Lupin was slightly taken aback, his brows lifting as he studied his Alpha. The man was peeved about something; that was for sure. If it was all because of him was a bit more nebulous. He seemed to be in a generally off mood, and would take it out on anyone who presented the opportunity. Curiosity snaked its way though his mind but he knew better than to ask, even if he honestly wanted to help. A congenial Fenrir Greyback, while still horrific and awful, was a sight better than a put-out Fenrir Greyback. The risk to his own body made him wonder if the slight improvement was worth the peril of questioning him. He could have sniffed the air to try and sort this out, even for his own sake, but just inhaling would be enough to tip off Greyback, especially with him watching. On the other hand, wouldn't the man be proud that Lupin was resorting to his base instincts and acting more like one of the pack? If he did nothing and just left, he would be safe. If he did something he would be hurt or praised. It wasn't difficult for him to decide; standing, Lupin gave Fenrir a nod, passing him on his way out. At the very least he could enjoy some sunlight. As he went by, he could smell something sweet drifting through the dirty stink that was Greyback. That wasn't normal; it was like what he had smelled before. So then the mate rumours were true? Was that his problem? Some issue with the missus? Like her finding out who he was, or waking up in the middle of it, or finally telling him no and managing to run off to safety?

His step barely faltered as he continued away, not wanting to allow Fenrir to know he had been scented. Aneya had that right and the Elders could do such a thing, and often the pups did it accidentally or in innocent worry. No one else could; it was akin to breaking into your friend's room to read their hidden, secret journal. It wasn't his right and he could have been beaten into submission for it. Aurors hadn't been able to take Fenrir down so even with a wand, Lupin's odds were next to nil. And he didn't fancy a beating when he had Order meetings to go off to. He wondered why Fenrir hadn't pressed their miniature discussion, hadn't been more typically violently demanding. Then again, apparently he had other things on his mind. Out of all the times for Fenrir to complicate his life by mating, it had to be now. Their world was about to be thrown into chaos and he'd just added more complexity to the mix. That was stupid in itself; he had enough to concentrate on, and now he was allowing himself to be affected by some woman. Willing or not, she was still on his mind. Aneya seemed to know more, but could he approach her about something that wasn't quite pack business and get her to spill about Fenrir's private life? Yes, a mate, an Alpha female, affected them all and it was Greyback's right and responsibility to bring one into the pack – or so he taught and his pack understood as fact. But they were also people with emotions (as loathe as he was to admit it) and all had a right to privacy. Still, this may be something to go to the Order with, and the more he could draw out, the better.

If the Order could figure out whom this witch was, they could offer protection, help her, even set up a trap. And Fenrir was a Death Eater; whoever his "mate" was could have heard something. It may even end up useful to the Order. Aneya could say no to him when he asked and he wouldn't be set back any, but if she did divulge, he could be up some useful information. Perhaps spying on Fenrir _was_ useful. It was good to know his movements and his actions, to relay all that back to people who mattered. This was an in though, more than simple spying. Something could really be done. Snape was good to have for all this intelligence gathering, but a separate source wouldn't hurt either. Lupin settled on speaking to Aneya. He wasn't sure he'd get anywhere with his querying into Fenrir's personal life, but it was worth a shot.

As Lupin was trying to garner information on Fenrir, Fenrir himself was still in the living room, sitting silently in his chair. The room stunk warmly of barely washed bodies but it wasn't offensive. It was his home; it was a comforting smell, the scent of his pack and his adoptive children. His mind drifted and he tried to remember if Lupin had told him anything concrete as to why he had returned those weeks ago. He had accepted him in, welcomed him back as a pack mate. Something made him do that, other than the simple fact that it was Lupin returning to him after so many years. Had he said anything? Truthfully his mind was elsewhere most of the time and the boy – man – could have made some crucial statement that cleared this whole thing up.

Still, Fenrir didn't get to where he was by believing everything he was told. People lied, he lied, everyone had a story to get by on. Was that it then? Some long-winded tale that reeked of complexity and over-explanation? No, he'd remember that one. So it had been off-handed then, hadn't it? He could just _ask_ the man, but wouldn't that show that he was suspicious? Scowling and tapping his nails on the armrest of his chair, Fenrir didn't get up until his growling belly demanded he fill it with food.


	30. Chapter XXIX: Heat

AN: hey guys! You're all so awesome ^____^ Thank you for all the great reviews :D They make my day, they really do. Alright, well, I've been working a bit on the fic, but soon the updates will have to slow down again. I'm starting to catch up with myself. And I'll have to get another beta, because I don't want to harass the person who used to be my beta, seeing as I haven't contacted her in.. a long time... Anyhoo! I've been really eager to post this chapter, I think its one of my favourites, simply because of the subject matter. Lol, I think you'll get a kick out of it.

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Chapter XXIX: Heat

Later in the day as dusk was falling, Fenrir made his way to the creek that meandered through his woods. The younglings were running around through the trees, which was enough solitude for him. He liked hearing their yelps and shouts, knowing that they were near but not near enough to bother him. The water was cool as he lowered his body into it, soaked to his waist. He shivered. With the hot air and burning sun, even the tepid water was near frigid. Dunking under, he resurfaced a moment later and shook his upper body. Until one was completely soaked, that is. Paddling around the moderately deep water, idly wondering if he could expand it into something larger (he loved a good swim), he then flipped onto his back and just floated for a bit. There was something satisfying in having nothing to do. A contentment in knowing everything was alright and going well enough that he had a moment for himself. Yes, he had been taking quite a few of those "moments" lately, more than he ever had, but the point was still apt. He didn't need to be with his pack right now, didn't have to watch out over them. This was nice, just relaxing and rolling around in the water without a care.

As he became waterlogged, his fingers starting to get pruny, Fenrir hefted himself out of the creek and lounged on the bank, sprawled out in the grasses and weeds. He wondered if Delphia liked swimming. Did she even know how? Perhaps that was another thing he could teach her. He doubted she'd say no, even if she did already know. She'd find any excuse to spend time with him, he hoped, damning the slight niggling doubt. Of course she would; it was why he was teaching her in the first place. She wanted to learn but she wanted so much more. The only snag was that he'd have to get her to his den first. That one seemed to be going nowhere.

When the bugs came around to start feasting on his exposed flesh, Fenrir drew himself up onto his feet. He wasn't about to become a meal for anything, especially when it itched so much a day later. Sprinting through the trees so nothing could latch onto him, he headed for his den and went inside when he approached. He entered the living room where many of his pack were gathered. His Elders were planning a raid for the night to get them more food. Some of the kids wanted to go out and terrorize Muggles; he gave his permission. Better Muggles than wizards. They couldn't afford the attention. Besides, the Dark Lord would be a little miffed.

After awhile his Elders left, muttering amongst themselves. Night proper was falling and few were left in the room. Fenrir turned his attention to Lupin who was sitting alone. He had made up his mind to ask about why he was here, what had driven him back to his pack. Opening his mouth to speak, he was as startled as anyone when a suddenly suppressed howl of pain issued forth instead. Automatically he clamped his hand over the black mark in his inner arm, hissing with a wince. Why it had to hurt so much was beyond him. Wasn't it a bit telling if there were others around? Lupin's eyes briefly went wide, recognising at once what was happening. Fenrir didn't say a word, just got up and left. He headed for his room to get his robes, yanking them clumsily on. It had been Gorath who had bought them, trying to find the largest fit he could. They were still tight, threatening to tear at the seams. Unfortunately, short of heading into a robe shop himself and being fitted, they were the best anyone could do. He wasn't too sure many people would have been pleased to see him in their store, let alone actually having to interact with him, so he dealt with what he got. It wasn't like he wore them unless he absolutely had to anyway. He could manage in them for short amounts of time, ripping them off his frame when the first opportunity arose.

As he closed them as best he could, he was cheered suddenly. He headed for his door then down the ancient staircase for the front door. A Death Eater meeting meant he got to see Delphia again. And that most likely meant more than just looking. He could even, maybe, speak to her about coming to his den. He'd promise her safety; hell, he'd promise her anything, if she could just escape her mother's clutches for _one_ night. Just one night of having her in his bed, of brining her home to his pack. One morning of waking up next to her and not having to use his hands to quell his need. All he was asking was one day of having a normal mate, a regular life as an Alpha, and not all this cloak and dagger shite. He was already becoming quite sick of it. She was his; she belonged to him and was supposed to be at his side. At the very least she could pretend to care enough to make an effort; for one day.

Making his way out onto his grounds, Fenrir Disapparated, leaving for the Riddle House.

Delphia and her brothers took a bit longer to get ready, having to wait until all four of them were dressed before heading off through the gardens. Together at the Apparation point, they took turns Disapparating, standing with the stone to make sure none of them would be hit by the wards. They arrived split seconds after one another, pop, pop, pop, pop, and stood with each other to make sure they had all arrived safely. They made their way to the house, Delphia lagging a bit, wincing under her mask. She really didn't like this whole walking thing; she'd much prefer to just lie in her bed with a big bottle of willow to take the edge off. Her siblings didn't comment on her slight limping waddle as she reached around under her robes to rub her lower back. They'd grown up with her and their mother, and had been around enough women to know what this was. In a way they almost pitied her, even Makrin, knowing that if _they_ had to go through that every month, they'd probably just Avada Kedavra themselves to avoid what seemed to be agonizing pain.

It was. Merlin it hurt. Some months she didn't even feel it, other times, like this, she just wanted to rip her uterus out of her stomach and hurl it away. That was a thought; she had her dagger on her and the pain from the blade couldn't be as bad as the pain of her innards. She almost laughed at herself; what a stupid thought. Then she could bleed to death and still be in agony, rather than just bleed and hurt. Wincing as she opened the door, not wanting to stop massaging her back but having to, she trailed along behind her brothers who were already gone, setting her jaw. She'd fight the pain, she'd done it many times before. If she had only taken some willow before leaving but of course, in the flurry of the moment, she had forgot.

Trying to control her steps as best as she could, Delphia made her way towards the doors at the end of the empty hall. She could hear the buzz of conversation filtering from the large room beyond and headed for it. Almost there and the doors opened, an unmasked figure stepping through. She stopped, her belly spasming and making her grunt softly as she managed the flicker of pain. There was a sharp intake of air, a hungry sniffing and it wasn't from her. Then she was practically attacked.

Almost everyone had arrived. Fenrir was stalking about the room, trying to find suitable conversation or a nice spot to glower and intimidate the others from. Unfortunately it seemed Snape had taken the best perch, already settling into his "I hate all living things" gig. Heaving a sigh, figuring he'd have to socialise, Fenrir turned to look for Malfoy and saw the doors open. A mass of black flooded into the room and his breathing stopped for a second. The group of three separated slightly and walked in then went their ways, splitting off for the time being. Blinking a few times in confusion, Fenrir wondered where the hell Delphia was. She never left her brothers, did she? Had she not come to the meeting? The Dark Lord wouldn't be pleased with that. He so hated being stood up. It made Him paranoid. The last thing Fenrir needed was his mate being hunted down because of a misunderstanding.

No one was paying any attention to him. He shrugged to himself and decided he could at least check the hall before he really began fretting. It wasn't something he was accustomed to and that in itself was disconcerting. Moving lithely across the room, he opened one of the doors and peered into the dark corridor beyond. There was a lone figure there, about the height of his chest and even in those robes, very feminine. She was walking slowly – not wanting to be there? That was odd. She was doing so well in her lessons and she had never mentioned hating being a Death Eater. In fact, she seemed to revel in almost as much as she did in him.

He stepped through and shut the door behind him. The masked face lifted and he sensed her surprise, her relief and saw her big green eyes widen. Merlin he loved how expressive they were. Something caught his attention and he inhaled sharply. Nearly instantly he found himself salivating, blood pulsing almost painfully into his groin. He sniffed the air a couple times, his chest rising and falling as he approached her. When he groaned, he lunged, capturing her in his arms, pressing her against the wall. She squealed and squirmed against him, trying to get away even as she giggled. He pried the mask off her face and started licking her, lapping at her cheek and neck. His mind was positively swimming and he couldn't think a single coherent thought. All he could smell was musky warmth, a ready bitch. He was already rocking against her stomach, his nails clawing at her robes. How could she torture him like this? Come here in such a state? Did she have no idea what he would expect of her, what her place was as his mate?

"Fenrir!" she gasped, trying to shove him away, blushing red as his face finally lifted. He looked completely lost, his lips moist, eyes hazy and distant. "What are you doing?" she squeaked, struggling as he desperately lifted her robes, bringing her hard against his erection.

"You're in heat," he moaned, head tipping back as he leaned his body into hers, his full weight crushing her into the black wall.

She was crimson now, her eyes becoming firm, her lips set in a line. "What are you talking about? Let me go, you're acting like a maniac."

He gave her a look and she couldn't stop the smile.

"Okay, you're usually a maniac; you're just being insane as well."

"You're in heat," he repeated, breathless, the smell of her overwhelming his brain and instincts. There was only one thing he could do. If he had to chain her to his bed he would. She couldn't leave him, not while bleeding. He had to have her repeatedly, endlessly until she ceased to drive him mad. "You're bleeding," he simplified, sounding dazed.

"I cannot believe you would mention such a thing!" she screeched under her breath.

"I can smell you," he returned on an almost pathetic groan.

If she could have blushed any more, she would have. How horrible was that? It was bad enough to go through this every month or so, but to have a man who could actually _smell_ it on her? That was beyond embarrassing.

"Stop it," she breathed, fighting against him, trying to push him away. This wasn't right. He shouldn't have been able to tell what was happening to her body (even if he always knew). Normally he knew that she wanted him even when she denied it; but this was completely different. His grip became stronger and he went back to slavering over her face, cleaning her cheeks of any sweat that had built up from her mask. She felt him slip the mask surreptiously into her robes before returning his attentions to her.

"I have to have you." His rasp was forceful yet beseeching. "_Please_."

Delphia jerked a bit in surprise. He sounded almost like he was begging. What the hell was wrong with him? She was oozing blood and it wasn't pleasant and she was in a rather large amount of agony. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of her state and to have some slobbering beast pleading to have sex with her. The very thought was disgusting.

"You can't," she growled back, trying valiantly again to shove him away and, again, failing to budge him an inch. Usually she admired how muscular he was, but right now, it wasn't sexy, it wasn't even nice. "Just wait a few days until my period's over, alright?" She somehow managed to get the words out and felt a little shudder go through her. He wasn't the squeamish type however, so thankfully her frankness didn't affect him.

"Delphia," he growled, eyes glinting as they settled on hers, "I need you _because_ you're bleeding. You're my mate and you're in heat. You need me to fuck you."

She shivered under his weight. His words were so impassioned, his voice raw and hungry. Her body quaked suddenly with the need he had spoken of.

"But I hurt," she griped, whining a bit, hoping that would put him off if her "heat" itself didn't.

He sighed and eyed her, resting his hands on her lower back, somehow drawing her in even tighter. His fingers dug and stroked in the most blissfully gentle sensation she had ever felt. Delphia found herself purring, curling her arms around his shoulders as the pain dissipated somewhat, her belly squirming. All she could think about was putting her legs around him and just having him, wanting to feel him fill her.

"I'll make the pain go away," he rasped hopefully, nipping at her mouth, sucking on her lower lip and extracting a tiny bit of blood before kissing her. Why had she been so embarrassed? This was the perfect time to mate. Every part of his mind and body told him to forgo the meeting and drag her off with him to his den. He'd lock them up in his room and have her until he slumped exhausted over her body. Then when he woke up he'd take her again, and again, until he felt he would pass out. It wasn't fair for her to torment him by first being in heat in his vicinity, then by trying to shove him away and tell him no. What else was he supposed to do but fuck her senseless? She was confusing him but he'd get her to come around. By the way she was moaning and pressing against him, he hoped she already was.

"Let go of me," she breathed, forcing herself from his lips, shaking her head gently. "Someone will see us. And it's horrible that you can . . . can _smell_ it on me."

He snorted in exasperation and rolled his eyes. "You're my mate, whelp. I'm supposed to smell it on you." He growled and lowered his face to hers for another kiss, his lips brushing hers when he spoke again. "Just the scent of your blood makes me hard."

Whimpering, her muscles clenching, Delphia didn't know what to do. Part of her told her he was right. The other part, the pure-blood girl who had been raised properly, said that no man should ever take note of such a thing.

"Why?" she finally whimpered, shaking slightly against him, completely out of her element. No boys at Hogwarts had ever said or done anything like this and no men ever seemed to notice when any girl was menstruating. This was utterly bizarre, especially the fact that he _liked_ it.

"Because you're my mate," he rumbled against her lips, "how many times do I have to say it? I don't like repeating myself, whelp."

"Sorry," she whispered automatically, looking a bit shamefaced. "I just don't like the fact that you can smell me."

His brow furrowed. "Don't like it? Delphia, I can smell you when you come. When you become wet for me. What stupid soap you use when you masturbate for me in the shower when you think I'm still sleeping. I can always smell you."

Oh Merlin. He was embarrassing. She felt her face burn with renewed blushing as she ducked her head.

He chuckled and lifted her face back up with a crooked finger. "Why are you so embarrassed? You revel in blood."

"But . . . but this is . . . it's . . ." she couldn't pinpoint a way to describe it. Bloodletting and menstruating were two completely different things. Weren't they?

Snorting and scowling, he tossed his shaggy hair with some anger, speaking through gritted teeth. "Dirty?"

She nodded timidly. That was the word.

A low, protective growl. "Why? Because people tell you so? I'm the one you sleep with. When animals are in heat, they mate. _And I want to mate with you_."

Even as his words made her tenderly hollow, she knew that this had gone on quite long enough. Her brothers were going to wonder where she was and Fenrir's presence would begin to be missed. Not because anyone cared, but because he was a rather large, daunting figure and someone would eventually detect his absence.

"We have to get back to the meeting," she muttered, trying to look away. He wouldn't let her and she huffed in irritation.

"I'm not done with you, whelp. Whenever you're in heat, I'm having you. I don't care where you are, or what you're doing, you get your," he paused for a second, gulping a bit as he caressed her ass, squeezing gently; his voice became hoarse, "sweet little arse to me, so I can put you to good use."

She stared at him, both thoroughly aroused and somewhat aghast. He just wouldn't let this drop, would he? He was becoming more forceful by the second, and so _wicked_. Whimpering, having no choice but to nod, she did so and he let up his grip slightly, watching her warily.

"It'll ease your cramps," he finally said, chucking her chin with a fiendish little smile. "Is that good enough for you?"

Delphia really didn't like the idea of having sex in her state even with such an assertion. But as it didn't seem to bother him (what was it with him and blood?), what grounds did she have to argue about it? There was nothing she could say to sway him.

"It'll feel good," he growled against her lips, "I promise," he added, punctuating it with a soft, greedy kiss.

She heaved a sigh, her shoulders sagging. "You really want me because I'm bleeding? It doesn't bother you?"

He wanted to hit his head against the wall. She was so smart sometimes; how could she be so thick too?

"Of course," he snapped, "do you think I'm the only one who can smell you? Any animal, any werewolf, within a ten-metre radius can smell you and knows that you're ripe for a good, hard shag."

Shivering at his words, she realised he was right. Animals mated when they were in heat; why would he be any different? Oh Merlin that was disturbing. On the other hand, she apparently didn't need to be coy about her periods either. Not only would he know, but he would have her eagerly because of it.

She smiled shyly. "Does it really ease cramps?" she wondered, her voice hesitant.

He chuckled, his eyes dancing merrily, realising he had won. Damn all pure-bloods and their silly notions of propriety and correctness.

"Yes, Delphia. It does."

Somehow Fenrir managed to part from her, making his way back into the meeting room with her in tow. The Sonder brothers had been scanning the area for their sister, wondering where she had gone, starting to worry. When she entered with Fenrir, they swooped down on the pair, livid and demanding to know why he was with her. As the hissed tirade came to a close, Fenrir threw Delphia's arm away and snarled, stepping up into the three men. Any normal person would have been frightened of just one of them, let alone the full force of the trio; Fenrir wasn't a normal person. He was barely a person to begin with. There was no fear from him; he was irate and planning to put some whelps in their place.

"She was in pain, you idiots," he barked, his voice gravely with defensive ire. "She's my responsibility; I made sure she was alright. Why the hell didn't you force some willow on her before you left?"

The three men shifted uncomfortably, Kieran letting out a little cough as he glanced away.

"How would you know?" Jaeger speculated, his voice lightly touched with wonder and suspicion. "We _live_ with her so we know and we do pity her, as much as you may not believe it. But how in Merlin's name would you figure out such a thing?"

Fenrir snorted and wanted to cuff the man like he was a stupid pup. "I can smell her; or did you forget I'm a _werewolf_? Next time, make sure she has willow. Or I'll make you feel what she's feeling." He stalked off, thinking that he had managed that fairly well. After all, it was the truth. Of course, he had his own way of easing her pain, something that would make willow worthless in comparison. Joining a small group discussing what the night would probably be about, he found it difficult to concentrate. The twattle usually bored him but this was worse. He still had Delphia's scent in his nostrils, the taste of her blood in his mouth. It also seemed had been right about the distance at which he could smell her; from across the room he could still scent a woman ready to mate. Naturally he could smell all women when they were in heat, but it never affected him like this. It was an instinctual twinge that he shrugged off, unable to stop himself from smelling anymore than he could stop his hearing. That didn't mean he had to act upon it and he always ignored it completely. However, this was his female and it was his _duty_ to have her.

When Fenrir left the group, the three brothers closed in on their sister and it was Makrin who took her mask from her robe and placed it back on her face. She blushed, having completely forgotten Fenrir had taken it off, but thankfully her cheeks were now covered.

Jaeger shook his head woefully. "That was beyond uncouth, Delphia. Why would you go to him out of all people?"

She shrugged uncertainly and shook her head. "He came into the hall and I hurt, Jae, I really did. And he asked me what was wrong. I didn't even realise what I was saying, alright? I told him I hurt and I had cramps and all he did was rub my back until it was better. It wasn't like he didn't already know."

The brothers frowned but eventually nodded together.

"It's not quite like Greyback to _rub_ a girl's back," Kieran commented, scratching the side of his hood.

"You heard him; she's his responsibility and he's right," Makrin shot, surprising Jaeger. "She's been doing well under his care and . . . and if he can stop _that_ from hurting, then so be it. She won't be moping around the house as much. She gets like mother when she's in pain."

Jaeger had to agree with that, motioning them off. Thankfully Fenrir had been factual and helpful with his heightened senses, rather than disgusting and crude. He could have just as easily have mocked her, taunting her with the knowledge of what he apparently smelled, trying to strengthen her against pain with scorn, forcing her to buck up. The method he had used worked just as well it seemed. Was it really so simple as to rub a girl's back for a moment? Not that he or the other two would be trying that on Delphia at any point; it was just something to keep in mind for future reference.


	31. Chapter XXX: My Knight

Hey guys! Thanks for the reviews ^___^ Yes, that was a chapter that definately had to be written: one that is practically never dealt with in books and stuff, but when you're dealing with vampires and werewolves... it should be a glaring point. Anyway! This is a title I waited eagerly to use in the early days of the fic. I thought it up (Fenrir isn't a Knight in Shining Armour after all) and waited for just the right time to use it. So enjoy ;)

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Chapter XXX: My Knight in Ill-Fitting Robes

The meeting had been boring as any of the others, all talk based on the weapon to be retrieved that would help the Dark Lord destroy Harry Potter. Fenrir didn't know why they all had to be called forth for such a thing, but he supposed it was a way for the Dark Lord to show His control over everyone. Afterwards he had wanted to pull Delphia aside and have her right then and there, but he couldn't. If he was alone with her again, it might raise suspicion. She had to go home with her brothers as expected; no excuse would suffice, especially if she was hurting. He had managed to mutter "tomorrow" to her as she passed him with her siblings, receiving a quick jerk of her head in response. The last thing he wanted to do was force himself to wait for her, to bide his time, but he knew he had a few more days before her heat stopped. She had been fine just a day earlier. It was agony though, making himself Apparate back home, trudging to his room alone, knowing that his mate needed him. Who was he kidding? Certainly not himself; he needed _her_. He couldn't physically smell her any longer, but she was still there. He knew what she smelled like, knew that she was in heat, and it was more than enough to make his veins boil over.

Somehow he managed to crawl into bed, his robes unceremoniously stripped from his body and tossed aside onto an old desk that he used for that sole purpose. He even got a little comfortable on the mattress, settling into his pillows. It took forever for sleep to overtake him and the sleep that eventually did was restless. At least he'd be seeing her on the morrow.

It was the next afternoon: a few compressed pills of willow and Delphia was ready to go. Willow couldn't be taken as a potion or tea, as it is extremely bitter, so she choked down little balls of powdered and reshaped willow bark to stop the pain, at least for awhile. She had to, not only for her sanity, but because Jaeger was insisting on continuing her training when she got home from work. Apparently he had home-spun wisdom too, citing that exercise would lesson her pain. She figured that mother had told him to manipulate her with that fact, as how he would know something like that was beyond her. Unfortunately, no matter where the information had come from, it had been correct, proving him right. She was stuck with being hit by multiple spells, the pain from them usually more than enough to make her forget the ache in her belly and back.

He had started her off with general curse work, trying to get her to hurt him. When she had hit him satisfactorily twice, he switched to drilling her on Crucio. It was imperative that she learn at least that Unforgivable. It was the easiest of the bunch to use. Then he cast it at her, causing her to scream and writhe on the glossy ballroom floor, her contorted image mocking her agonised tossing. Each time was short, Jaeger only giving her a taste of it before allowing her to recover and stand back up. Then it was her turn and whenever she cast, he'd shake it off with a laugh. It stung, he soothed when she had become crestfallen, dragging herself off the floor for the fourth time and managing to get him to grunt in pain even though she wanted to stop, but she really had to _mean_ it. She couldn't want to hurt him in retaliation for harming her. The power, the torture, stemmed from hatred and the desire to see your victim suffering; righteous anger did nothing. She had to stop caring that he was her brother. All she needed to do was hate him for putting her through so much pain, when she was already aching as it was.

She was really getting sick of men knowing how she felt. That did make her irate, her emotions seething within her until she positively screamed _Crucio_ at her brother, waving her wand almost perfectly. She was surprised when he fell to his knees, twitching slightly, falling forward to his hands with a gasp as the pain let up on its own. It hadn't been horribly strong and hadn't lasted as it should have; but it was definitely a start. The pain had been quite real, enough to knock the wind out of him. Kieran could cast Crucio on a sigh with a careless flick of his wand and have people shrieking for hours, so Jaeger knew that Delphia still had a long way to go. He had not only seen the effects of their brothers' curses, but had felt them. Delphia was no where in their league. She was improving though, greatly in the past few weeks and now, by the hour. He knew she could do it. Perhaps never as effectively as the rest of them. But she could still manage something better than decent.

Earlier than usual Jaeger let her go. Perhaps he was merciful after all. He had always seemed, strangely, the most civilized of the bunch. She left the ballroom with him, going alone to her room to soak in her bath. Her body ached, her muscles screamed in retaliation for the pain she had put herself through, and she just wanted to rest. Heading for her bathroom she ran the water fairly hot and turned on a tap of frothy pink bubbles. They were fruity and sweet, lifting her spirits with each breath and she soaked. Her nose started picking out individual scents; there was rosehips and melon, perhaps even some grapefruit. Berries too; raspberry? No . . . blackberry; a bit headier. She couldn't get every single one, but never had she been able to sort out the cacophony of scents before. It became a game in a way, easing her mind with something both stimulating and monotonous. When she couldn't name any more fruits, spices or herbs, she tried to isolate each scent, pinning it down and sniffing just that. It took some concentration to ignore everything else flooding her brain, but she managed to smell each individual fruit on its own. The herbs were tougher, more subtle, and she couldn't quite get them, but she was amazed that she had managed anything at all. Not that it mattered or had any use; it had still served its purpose. She was relaxed, at ease and had accomplished something, no matter how mundane and worthless.

Slipping from the bath and drying herself off, Delphia put on some casual robes and headed for the dining room. That was something else she could smell drifting through the mansion: food. Besides, after practicing with Jaeger and spending that time in the tub, dinner had to be soon. She went to her usual spot at the table, her mother and then brothers joining only a moment later. Dinner appeared before them on grand platters, everyone taking what they wanted as they liked. After dinner Delphia went to the massive library as she hadn't done in quite some time, feeling fidgety. She grabbed a book and cracked it open randomly, but didn't read. Her leg bounced against the floor. A frown settled on her mouth. Where was Fenrir? He should have arrived by now. Perhaps he was just late; he always came for her. He had been insane enough the night before so she knew he had to be making one of his grand appearances soon.

She waited in tremulous anticipation until eleven. Every time she heard footfalls outside the library she jumped and sat there with bated breath. Perhaps it was her imagination. She couldn't really hear anyone outside the library; the space was too large, the doors too far from her and besides, she had never been able to before. Still, hands shaking, limbs weak, she stayed put, hoping he'd come to her at some point. And then it was eleven o'clock and she realised then that he wasn't coming to her. Constricting grief welled up in her chest, threatening to choke her. Why hadn't he come? She hadn't done anything wrong, she hadn't got the chance to. Even so, he still wasn't there. Her chin trembled as she pouted, swallowing hard. Shoulders sagging she limply dragged herself from her chair, sighing forlornly. Her mind couldn't wrap around this. It was incomprehensible that he would have stood her up. He had said tonight and she expected him to be there.

He still wasn't. Tossing her unread book onto her vacated chair, Delphia trudged her way out of the library, not caring if anyone saw her drawn face, her defeated posture. So this was what it was like. She had never cared enough for anyone to feel the pain of loss. It wasn't pleasant and she didn't know if it was worth it. Her chest and stomach twisted and tugged in a way she had never felt. Suddenly every muscle ached as tears threatened to spill from her eyes. It wasn't the same ache as being overworked; it stung and throbbed like needles moving through her body under her skin. She wanted to punch her pillow and scream.

When she slid into bed, Delphia realised how childish she was being. If she was fifteen, she could understand acting this way. But she was a grown woman now and had to be a tad more mature. It could have been completely valid why he hadn't shown up. He had made no mention of not wanting her; quite the opposite. Nothing could have changed in twenty-four hours. Unless he had found someone else that grabbed his attention as much as she had two months ago. Was it more now? She didn't even remember. What if he had found something better than her and just figured he didn't have to inform her of this?

Now she was getting paranoid. Rolling over, she buried her face in a pillow and whimpered, closing her eyes. She could smell him; her linens were regularly washed, but he had used this pillow enough to be right in it. Though the detergent and softeners she could scent him. This was stupid, mooning about like some love-sick childish girl. No matter how dumb it was, she still felt rejected and hurt. It wasn't mature and very unbecoming. Her chest continued to ache, squeezing painfully even as it felt it would burst. She had to swallow again, forcing down the bile rising from her churning stomach. But what if it wasn't that? She whimpered; what if something had happened to him? Panic seized her; she broke out in a cold sweat even with the heat. No, nothing had happened; please, let nothing have happened to him. Her body and mind screamed at her, the emotional turmoil exhausting her even as it prevented sleep. She snarled into the pillows and then she drifted off uneasily, too worked up to stay awake.

Would the window break? He wasn't quite sure as he weighed the rock in his hand, hefting it after a moment of consideration. Cringing as it flew up the two storeys, he readied himself from the crash of glass and telltale tinkling as it scattered down. There was nothing but a thud and a golden eye cracked open, staring up. It seemed Gorath's protections were still in place. Excellent. Grabbing something else off the ground, a chunk of wood he realised after examining it, he lobbed it at the window. Then another rock; and he found another. Until there was a steady barrage against the glass, most of the projectiles reused as they bounced back down around his bare feet.

Something was rousing her from sleep. A constant thumping with no rhythm. It didn't sound like someone knocking at the door; people usually had a pattern. This was absolutely chaotic and that in itself was enough to perk up her mind, her body slowly following as it heard the constant clunk in the middle of her wall. Delphia's eyes popped open and took in the darkness. She couldn't see a thing. Her gaze drifted in the direction of the noise and she saw something fly at her window. She winced but it hit and harmlessly bounced away. Blinking, the light from the window starting to fill her vision, lightening her room so it was visible now, she swung her legs out of the bed and gingerly stood up. She went to the window and jumped a bit as something else hit the pane of glass, reaching sleepily towards it. Who the hell would be tossing stuff at her window? She opened the window a crack and jumped again, the window falling shut as a rock came sailing at her. As it fell she flung the window open and stuck her body outside, scowling down at a rangy silhouette.

She had to blink a few times to clear her vision, to make sure she was really seeing this and that she wasn't dreaming. He stepped closer to the wall and jumped up, hanging off the ledge running around the house. Grunting with effort he propelled himself upwards, grabbing at her window sill. Immediately she was clutching at him, grappling with his scarred, sinewy body, helping drag him inside.

Fenrir fell with her in a heap on the floor, not wanting to have to ever repeat that. Exiting her window was much easier than entering it. He heaved on the floor from the effort of getting in there, not complaining when Delphia perched herself atop him, glowering angrily.

"Where in Merlin's name _were_ you?" she screamed as quietly as she could manage. It was the wee hours in the morning and sounds had a tendency to drift, echo and amplify in the silence of darkness.

His hands ran up her thighs as he peered between her legs, an almost contented sigh escaping him. She felt so good under his palms. He could lie here all night if he had to, at the receiving end of her fury, if he could just keep touching her impossibly silken skin.

"Damn it Fenrir," she hissed, wanting to slap him, her hands balling into fists at her sides as tears pricked her eyes, "where were you? I was sick with worry. By Merlin, I thought you had been captured, or that you didn't want me or –"

He silenced her by wrapping his arms around her waist and yanking her against him. Deftly he rolled them over on the floor, insinuating his hips between her thighs.

"Quiet baby," he rasped, stroking her hair. That she had actually been _worried_ about him touched him greatly. She wasn't mad because he hadn't shown up, he realised, but because she had been terrified of something awful happening. She immediately relaxed at his words, her legs curling around his as she stroked his back.

"What happened?" she murmured, feeling his nose against her cheek, hearing his deep inhalation. He shuddered in delight; no human should ever smell this delicious.

"One of my younglings," he grumbled, raking a hand gently through her soft hair, tangling his fingers in it. Was every part of her truly this velvety? "He got injured and had to be tended to. I couldn't leave."

"Oh." Her voice was light, almost a breath as she stared up at him. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah," he grunted, petting her hair. He could feel her chest pressing into his with each breath. Merlin, she was so damned _soft_. And touchable; unwinding his hand from her brown locks, he ran his palm down her side, over the flair of her hip. He gripped and groaned, nails digging gently into the voluptuous packing of fat there. "He's fine," he added into the silence, his voice slightly choked with lust. She had never met his pack and she still cared. He liked that, almost as much as the feel of her crushed beneath him.

"Good," she murmured, her arms settling comfortably around his shoulders.

They were both whispering. He didn't know if they really needed to, or if there was a point. He'd have her screaming in a moment. Smiling lazily at her, he got up on his knees and pushed her legs back and apart, fully exposing her to him. A low groan tore through his chest as the sight, and her scent, filled him. He had never seen nor smelled a more desirable female in his life. Maybe it was because she was his mate and completely willing, laying there passively for him, trusting him absolutely. Or perhaps it was simply because she was truly that desirable. It could have been a measure of both. A wicked grin flickered to life on his face as he stared down at her moist, bloodied slit. There was nothing better in the world. He could smell her arousal through her heat and it drove him insane. Gently he eased his growing erection into her, shuddering as he was enveloped in silken, liquid warmth. He lowered himself onto her, smothering her with his bulk, blanketing her protectively. Her limbs encircled him securely as her lips found his and he wasn't gentle anymore, unable to hold back.

He had been right; he did get her to scream. His easy thrust, his plans to have her overcome this disgust at bleeding, were completely forgotten as she clenched down on him, her tongue stroking his. Every tight inch of her was slick and hot, absolutely rapturous; he couldn't stop thrusting. He couldn't stop pounding his body into hers, his member gliding perfectly snug within her sheath. His head tipped back with a groan and he knew he was absolutely, blissfully lost. Had anything in his life ever been this glorious? She was an exercise in self-control and an absolute indulgence. Her every muscle strained in tandem with his, her sheath positively clinging to him. Merlin she was so warm, so wet; his groans became a heavy growl as he pounded harder, deeper into her. Her whines echoed his grunts of utter _pleasure, _her movements and desperation as frantic as his own. She was thrashing and lolling on the floor, her nails digging into his buttocks as she urged him faster, gasping his name. Her orgasm felt as beautiful as it smelled, their scent filling his mind. It was all around them, a wafting cloud of total gratification, wrapping about them as a sign, a warning to others of their union. She belonged to him, completely; he was the only one allowed near her.

She howled through her climax, arching for him, body bucking madly. He was whining, shivering, his body heaving over hers as his hips slammed a furious tattoo. His mouth lowered onto hers, devouring her lips, biting and suckling until they were red and swollen. He loved it when they were pouting so sensuously, stained with blood, engorged from his attentions. She was moving with him again, whimpering for more, her limbs wrapped tight around his solid frame. He shivered at the sight of her thoroughly ravished face and body; there was nothing more erotic in the world than a tousle-haired girl moaning and thrashing, her eyes wild and pleading, her mouth moist. Her body undulated rhythmically with his, her whines all for him: he was too amazing, too good; she never wanted him to stop.

He had to; he couldn't take any more. Ecstatic tendrils wound their way through his body, every nerve firing. He trembled above her, his hips jerking spasmodically. Tossing his head back, howling throatily up at the ceiling, burning heat flooded though his system. His head drooped as he gasped, staring blankly down at the panting, flushed woman pinned under his weight. Her eyes fluttered, her hips moving, muscles contracting to gently milk him. He let out a cry and ecstasy hit him solidly in the gut, his seed shooting into her. His moan was deep, breathless as his muscles gave out, collapsing atop her. He panted in the crook of her neck, his arms limp, unable to even hold her. She was panting beneath him, kissing the side of his face adoringly. Growling in contentment he lapped at her throat. He couldn't lift his head. Her throat was all he could get to.

Minutes passed with them catching their breaths on the hard floor. Delphia felt some measure of strength filter back into her body and she pushed gently at Fenrir's shoulders. Having had enough time to gather some strength, he managed to lift his head with a soft snarl; he was comfortable damn it. Leave him be. She gave him a look and pushed again, wiggling her hips as she did so. His eyes went wide and now he did grab her, cradling her in his arms. He licked her jaw in satisfaction, pulling out of her. She stared at him then caressed his cheek, smiling sweetly. He sighed and rolled over, not wanting to leave her warmth but having to. In a moment he'd get more but the bed would be much more comfortable. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he gently helped Delphia up beside him. She fell onto his shoulder with a giggle, hugging his arm as she pressed her breasts into him. He stroked her hair, twisting his torso slightly, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

Dislodging himself gently from her, he stood. She looked up at him and sighed as he reached over to help her up.

"You're all covered in blood," she muttered, seeing his limp penis streaked with their fluids, not meeting his gaze as he hefted her onto her feet. He smirked and turned her about, guiding her on the bed, settling her onto her knees.

"Of course I am," he rasped, "lean forward; get on your hands."

She did as he asked without question, craning her head around when she felt his hands stroking her arse. Then she realised why she was positioned in such a way. "Are you really taking me like this?" she wondered, hesitant. Her eager little inhalation belied her timid tone.

He grinned, gazing down at her open, well-used sex and nodded. "Yes, Delphia. You won't be able to walk when I'm through with you." Her delighted shudder aroused him, invigorating him for more. He couldn't, not quite yet, but that didn't mean he wouldn't soon. Bending over, he lapped at her, tasting a mixture of her blood and them. Her enraged shriek made him laugh gruffly. He stroked her flank as he slid three fingers inside her, groaning at the sight of her body so easily taking his digits. Her inner walls clamped down and she shivered, arching against him.

"If you don't like it," he rasped mockingly, "you really should give me my fingers back."

She giggled and shook her head, leaning down on the bed, her arse still high in the air. "What else are you going to do to me?" she asked softly, her voice coy and taunting.

His blood surged at that. "Just you wait, whelp," he growled, pulling his fingers away, snickering at her unhappy groan. Getting up in the bed behind her, he seized her hips in his hands. He marvelled at the smooth curve of her waist and hips for a moment, running his fingers up and down her sides. Streaks of blood coloured her hip and he leaned over, quickly licking the markings away. He groaned, nuzzling her flesh, biting her hungrily. There would never be a day that he'd tire of her, although he knew for certain that she'd definitely tire him out.

"Fenrir," she whined, reaching around to touch him, the pads of her fingers brushing against the whiskers on his face.

He lifted himself up with a smirk, examining the obvious bite amongst the old claw marks. A few drops of blood trickled down her leg; it smelled different from the rest of her. It was metallic, sweet, but didn't have that tang of absolute need.

"Quiet," he barked gently, taking her hips between his hands again. "No more talking; I want to hear you scream."

She trembled and let him take her unresisting hand, guiding it to his budding erection. Her fingers closed down on him, pulling softly, sighing at his moans. He slid his fingers into her again, the smell and sight of her blood making his mouth water as he started bucking against her palm. Growling, he tossed her hand from him and swiftly plunged his phallus into her yielding body. Clutching her hips, leaning into her, he pounded her enthusiastically, still marvelling over how she could be so tight. She shivered and moaned, moving eagerly against him, revelling in the fact that he was inside her again. Her entire being screamed emphatically in glory, her shouts of delight reverberating through the room. There was no greater feeling, nothing better than having him surging in her body. She wanted to feel him fill her belly, to hear him roar her name as he always did. Whining into the blankets, her fingers clawed the comforter and she practically sobbed in bliss. The sensation of his hardness gliding in and out of her, pounding her vigorously was too much for her to take. Her whole body was frayed, coming apart as he grunted above her. He was deep within her, filling her completely; she gasped, every muscle tensing. Then she was rocking against him as she moaned, whimpering his name. Euphoria washed over her and she went limp, unresisting as he became brutal within her, his own pleasure triggered by hers. He snarled, whined then spasmed inside her. A long, heart-wrenching moan and he was coming, trembling. his seed hitting her womb. She gasped for air, her muscles weak and shaky. She felt him lean against her, then sprawl out on her back, crushing her into the mattress. His breath was heavy on her shoulder, his arms encircling her as he dragged her over, collapsing on his side. He let out a groan and laid there with her protectively in his arms, smothered by his weight. She sighed and wiggled back against him, snuggling in closer. He smiled and rested his head against hers, idly cupping a breast.

"You're wonderful," she murmured sleepily, her body absolutely drained.

He chuckled. He didn't need any praise, didn't need her to inform him on his performance. He had ears; he could hear her crying out for him when she found fulfillment. The way she moaned his name was worth more than any words she could speak. It still felt nice though, hearing her tired, satisfied voice breathlessly telling him of how wonderful he was. Damn it, he _was_ wonderful. He chuckled again, this time at himself as he hugged her tighter, dropping a kiss on her shoulder. She murmured and sighed, happy to laze in his arms, clutched like a treasured possession. They lay there for a long while, basking in each other, half-sleeping as they rested.

"Delphia?" His rasp was soft and curious, almost tentative, cutting through the lengthy silence that had so soothed them.

She hummed and shifted slightly, turning her head so she could see him, giving him an absolutely grateful smile. "Hmm?"

He stared at her for a moment, feeling her turn in his embrace as he watched her dazed expression shift to inquisitiveness, her brow furrowing somewhat. She settled back down into his arms, pressing against him, breast to chest. He snorted and glanced away with a frown then looked back at her. There had to be a way for him to word his question – no, his _demand_ – without seeming like he was begging. She was silent as she let him find his voice, gazing up into his nearly scowling face. Her hand lifted to his chest and she stroked her fingers through the grey curls, petting him, making him squirm.

He huffed and moved in closer to her, shifting his arm to tangle his fingers in her hair. "Come to my den with me," he finally grumbled, hooking his legs around hers, every inch of their flesh touching. Her brows lifted and she glanced away, her hand stilling on his pectoral. Scowling he nosed her cheek, forcing her to turn her head back around to face him. She sighed heavily, her gaze dropping.

"I can't," she finally muttered, shrugging listlessly. "I'm sorry Fenrir, but I can't."

His scowl deepened. So it was fine for him to come here and have her, but once she had to do something, once she had to go to him and be part of _his_ life, she balked?

"Why can't you?" he barked, clutching her, claws digging into her naked skin.

"Because," she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder as she ignored the stinging in her back, staring up at him, "my mother will never let me. How can I be with you if she's blocking the way?"

Snorting in distaste, he gave her a scathing look. "Your mother learned to obey long ago. I suggest you do the same."

"Fenrir!"

He rolled his eyes. He was a bastard; she knew that, she shouldn't sound so bloody shocked. "Your mother hasn't stopped us yet. Use the brain everyone keeps talking about. You're coming to my den; it isn't a request."

"Fenrir," she snapped, edging slightly away from him, "I am _not_ going with you because you order me to –"

"Damned bloody right you are," he rumbled, drawing her back against him, tighter this time.

"Let me finish," she spat, eyes narrowing. "I'm going because I _want_ to."

He paused and then blinked at that, eyes slitting away. His jaw set as he huffed and shrugged slightly. He had thought she was trying to avoid tossing herself in completely with him, instead enjoying the danger of sleeping with him from a safe perch. And he had spoken to her as such. Was it that she thought it physically impossible to escape her mother's clutches, her sight, for long enough to stay with him? Even for a short amount of time? Not that he would allow it to be short by any stretch of the imagination. Preia didn't have that sort of omnipotent, omniscient power no matter what Delphia or her brothers thought. She was still a woman and could be tricked. Especially when she had raised her daughter to be as wily and underhanded as herself.

"Fine," he grunted after he was quiet too long. "Then _will_ you come with me to my den?"

She sagged slightly and gave him a sad look. "I don't know if I can. Really, Fenrir. I mean, I'd like to be with you but even if I can get past my mother . . ." she flushed slightly and wouldn't meet his gaze after that.

It didn't take a scholar to realise what she was embarrassed about this time. For once it was something she truly felt bad about mentioning with him. "Whelp," he rasped softly, caressing her face as he shifted her head so she'd look at him again. "You'll be safe from my pack. Even if they were inclined to hurt you, fear of my wrath alone would keep them in check."

She nodded at that and he smirked, nipping adoringly at her lip before shifting onto his back. He felt her snuggle up against his side, her head on his shoulder as her leg curled around his. This was what having a mate was about. It was more than the physical mating, more than sex. It was the feel of one's thoroughly satisfied female moving into you for protection and warmth, of having and caring for a pack, of making decisions and her, always the more level of the two, tempering one's edge with wisdom. Delphia needed more years on her for the last one, but she seemed to have some promise.

"Alright, Fenny," she eventually breathed, "I'll figure out a lie for my mother and I'll go with you."

His brows quirked at that, mouthing _Fenny_ up at the canopy. A rumble of laughter started in his chest and he struggled to quell it, not wanting to mock her so thoroughly. Especially since she had agreed to do what he wanted. Not that she'd had much choice; worse came to worst and he would have just dragged her off, damn the consequences. Still, she agreed of her own volition and that meant something. But _Fenny?_ She didn't really think she'd get away with that did she?

Shaking his head with a snort and casting his eyes to the unseen moon, he gave her a little squeeze. "Fenny?" he taunted, "Why don't you call me your darling little puppy and get it over with?"

She went red and dug her nails into his abdomen, making him hiss and shiver. Oh Merlin he liked it when she was mean.

"You call me whelp," she retorted hotly, "so why can't I have a ridiculous, discomforting pet name for you?"

"Pet name!" he roared, rolling swiftly onto her. "So I'm just a dog to you then, whelp?"

She giggled and pushed at his shoulders, trying to squirm away from him, shrieking and laughing as he lowered his face into her neck. His pointed teeth sank into her pale skin and she screamed, her struggles ceasing immediately, her body arching from the near-orgasmic pain he created.

"Stop," she panted, fighting half-heartedly against him as he pushed her legs apart. He growled, licking up her blood, biting her again. Another scream and she trembled beneath him, her hips bucking, her body thrashing wildly. He moaned as he swiftly penetrated her, sinking blissfully into her body. She relaxed immediately, her sheath constricting down on him. Damn it she felt glorious. Lifting his head he gazed down at her, his lips smeared with her blood. She smiled, leaning up to kiss him, her mouth opening for his tongue as he began thrusting, possessing her once more.

* * *

The next morning Delphia found herself cradled on top of Fenrir's body, his arms locked around her shoulders and waist. He groaned as she roused, trying to pull herself up even as he tried to yank her back down. It was nice having her atop him, so warm and cozy. He didn't want her to move. And he wanted to keep sleeping. But when she looked to the window and saw how high the sun was above the horizon, she began shaking him frantically, her voice hoarse with horror. It was late, too late; they had slept in. Immediately he was bounding from the bed, tossing her unceremoniously aside. As he dashed to the window he barked that he'd be back for her lesson on Friday and to have a lie for her mother. It came out as a garbled, sleepy mess, but she understood him nonetheless, even through his yawns. Then he wrenched the window open and dropped down to the ground as she trailed along in his wake. She smirked, idly touching the tender punctures at the junction between her neck and shoulder, watching him leave. They could have been caught; her elf was due at any moment. She saw him running for the woods then shook her head with a wry giggle.

Something about this made her feel like a naughty witch from some tawdry romance novel, except that instead of a dashing rogue, she had a murderous werewolf. And she wouldn't have traded the two for anything in the world. Besides, handsome rogues in the night were so cliché.


	32. Chapter XXXI: A Lesson

Chapter XXXI: A Lesson

It was another normal-looking day at the Ministry. Umbridge was slightly worse than usual, all in a dither about her upcoming position at Hogwarts. That meant more responsibility for Katrine and Delphia, as they had to hold down the office, make sure they did the usual mundane paperwork, and manage a hefty portion of Umbridge's tasks as well. Seeing all this work and the work she was up against spawned an idea in Delphia's mind. Through the day it festered, growing and developing until the end of the shift when she played it through her mind for the third time. It would work. It had to work, it was almost fool-proof. There were some loose-ends, some ways to get caught (especially if her mother followed up on anything) but odds were it'd work.

At home it was the usual fare of Jaeger's lessons, their work on Crucio still not done. The whole time she completely forgot that she was supposed to be wracked with pain, writhing in her bed from cramps. Instead she was able to focus completely on the curse, impressing her brother a little with yet another improvement. She had managed to get him screaming on the floor for a good three seconds before the effects faded. He had praised her as he tried to get one of his hands to stop twitching, chuckling at himself as he shook his head. They were done for the day; she could go read or whatever it was she did with her time. It was almost sad that his statement was true but she did go to the library, curling up in her favourite chair with a trashy novel, giggling over how stupid the girl was in it. For some reason she was in the mood for that sort of story, the night-rogue making his obligatory appearance half-way through, saving the poor child from herself – because, of course, no _good_ woman in a story was ever capable of saving herself. Delphia found herself nearly roaring with laughter at the tasteless tale by the time dinner hour approached, an elf calling her to the table to join her family.

As she sat at the table, the food already there with her siblings digging in and piling their plates with thyme baked mashed potatoes and medallions of rare beef tenderloin, Delphia thought to herself, scooping her own portion onto her plate. She had been planning on tracking her mother down that night and explaining the situation to her, citing responsibility and the fact that she had no choice. Would it work though, would her mother believe her, or see right through the lie? The story she had spun was valid and true, even if she had no plans on actually executing it. Could mother see through that, or would the lie be swallowed as easily as her meal?

Delphia fretted within herself through dinner, her brothers and mother keeping up a steady conversation, used to ignoring Delphia by now. Long ago they had stopped trying to include her as her mind was usually on some book she was reading. Now and then she would jump in by herself, which was welcome, but not expected. There was a typical lull in the conversation as a discussion ended with Preia having the upper hand as usual. No matter the topic, she always won the debate. Delphia glanced over at their mother and cleared her throat, pushing her half-done meal around her plate, fidgeting slightly. Preia's eyes went to her daughter's after a moment and a brow lifted in curiosity. She took a dainty bite of tenderloin then set her fork down as she chewed, dabbing at her lips with a delicate cloth napkin embroidered with almost invisible silver thread.

"Mother," Delphia started, making up her mind right then and there to plunge in and find out now if she could do this. Why worry herself during the wait to speak with mother when she could just get it over with? "I wanted to ask you something."

Preia studied her daughter, setting the napkin down beside her plate. It laid out in a perfect acute triangle, every movement and action by this woman deft and purposeful. One day Delphia would learn how to be so prim and proper too; at least, Preia could see the makings of a refined woman in her daughter. As it was, Delphia's napkin was bunched up in her lap, smeared with _jus_ and herbs.

"Yes, child?" she wondered, speaking into the silence that had descended. No one spoke until they were acknowledged, waiting however long it took for such a thing. Be it seconds or hours, you let mother show interest in speaking to you before going off on a tangent.

"I don't know if you know, but Umbridge – Dolores – was recently made a teacher at Hogwarts."

Preia interrupted impatiently. "Of course I know. Lucius was positively tap-dancing when he found out."

Delphia smiled faintly and gave her mother a little bob of her head before lifting her chin up. "Yes, mother," she said factually, accepting the somewhat gentle chide. "As it is, because of this, Katrine – that's the girl I work with, I went out with her a few weeks ago?" After her mother nodded, thinking for a moment, Delphia continued. "Because of this, Katrine and I have a lot of work to do to prepare for Umbridge being gone. Too much work," she added as a grumble, shaking her head with a snort, missing her mother's short lived, humoured smile. "We want to get together for the weekend to try and get the bulk of the work done. We also want to go out and party," she added ruefully, smiling slightly, "which is why we need the whole weekend."

Preia snorted with laughter, her eyes sparkling. Delphia was socialising? It was about bloody time. Why in Merlin's name she had waited so long to grow up was beyond Preia, but at least it was finally happening. Perhaps she was becoming more comfortable with herself, what with everything going on in her life now. She had to finally realise she was a grown woman and was obviously ready to take on the responsibilities as such.

"When will you be leaving?" Preia wondered then, pushing her plate aside, no longer hungry. She had eaten enough for the night and now that she had been engaged in conversation (with her daughter no less), her hunger had faded and was gone.

"Tomorrow," Delphia informed her calmly, factually. "Tomorrow night, actually."

Preia nodded thoughtfully. "Greyback is due for your lesson tomorrow, isn't he?" she wondered, already knowing the answer.

So mother _had_ noticed the pattern of his appearances. Not that it was a problem; she probably thought it was a mark of respect he had for the family to allow them to prepare for his arrival. Prepare in such ways as having witty remarks, caustic comments and just generally being out of his sight.

"I believe so," Delphia agreed. "I'll be leaving after that, if he shows."

A mirthful snort. "He likes you, child," Preia observed, almost sounding proud to Delphia's shock, "you must remind him of your father. He wouldn't keep coming back if you were wasting his time."

_Yes, of course, that's it,_ Delphia thought to herself, giving her mother a shrug.

"It's probably better that he likes me. Having him as an enemy isn't wise."

"Truer words," Preia murmured, studying her only female offspring. "And when will you be coming back home?"

This was a lot easier than Delphia had thought. Was her mother so eager to have her out of the house? Or was she just glad she was actually doing something and acting like a normal teenager for once? Pretending to act like a normal teenager; mother didn't need to know that detail.

"Sunday night," she said slowly, not having really fleshed that part out. "Perhaps Monday, after work? We'll see what we feel like and whether I've overstayed my welcome," Delphia added on a laugh.

Preia nodded and waved her hand dismissively. "Of course you can go. I'd be a fool to say no."

_You'd be a fool to say yes._

"Just promise me one thing."

Delphia was taken slightly aback but nodded for her to continue.

"No men for more than a night." Her mother's words caused her brothers to choke slightly on the remnants of their meals, Kieran giggling down into his plate once he could breathe again. Like _Delphia_ would snag anyone for a one-night stand. He had seen boys try in his last year at Hogwarts and she had been completely oblivious. Thankfully, or he would have stepped in; she was still his little sister. She probably wouldn't know what men were for anyway, if it wasn't for her prolific reading. Jaeger and Makrin weren't so ignorant, knowing that while generally proper, their sister wasn't filled with shame. Nevertheless, that their mother would assume Delphia capable of such a thing was a shock, and rather the eye-opener. They simply had to accept that their baby sister was a woman now. And soon enough, some foolish man would come stumbling into their home expecting to be allowed in. If he survived the greeting, he may just be allowed to prove himself worthy. As it was, he'd be greeted by three very surly, extremely suspicious men, two well his senior and all much more powerful.

Was lying and fooling her mother really this easy? It had been so simple. A good story, not overly embellished, and the wool was pulled over her eyes. Not to mention that it was based in fact; but truth often provided the best falsehoods.

Nothing else was mentioned on the topic; it was taken as a matter of course. Preia didn't seem to have an issue with Delphia going out for the weekend. She hadn't done such a thing before so she wasn't pushing her mother's generosity in any form. Besides, having lived away from home for half her life, being constantly in the mansion was probably stranger to her than being gone. The next day at work Delphia debated for a long time with herself, wondering if she should drag Katrine into her scheme. In a way it would be best to keep the lie to as few people as possible. On the other hand, as Katrine was involved with the lie, she should know. If mother decided to call on her, or find anything out, or track Delphia down, Katrine had to be able to send her off without a worry.

So, after lunch, Delphia cringed and decided to just tell her. She told her how she wanted to spend the weekend with . . . with her boyfriend (Katrine squealed and clapped her hands at that point), and that she had lied to her mother about spending the weekend working with her. Just in case, she wanted Katrine to know that she was involved with the ploy, so if her mother did anything, she'd know what was happening and to send her away. Katrine had nodded vehemently at that, saluting Delphia playfully, informing her that she'd been part of such things before. That didn't surprise Delphia whatsoever. At least Katrine had some experience in what to do and say so her mother wouldn't become suspicious.

She thanked Katrine who nodded with a dismissive wave, saying it was nothing. Then she grinned fiendishly and quipped that she hoped Delphia enjoyed herself, casting her a saucy wink. Delphia went a tinge pink, which made Katrine laugh, continuing to rib and poke at her, to see how red she'd go.

Fenrir was restless all Thursday and Friday. By Friday afternoon, he was practically bouncing around the den, unable to sit still for more than five minutes. In a way he felt like he had before Delphia, when the moon was calling him and he had no idea what she was saying. This time however, the agony was much sweeter. He knew he would be getting her, and soon, in his own bed. For a moment he could pretend he had a normal female for the pack, rather than some witch in the night to sate his appetites. He groaned and tossed himself into a chair. Almost sulking, he watched members of his pack flit in and out of the living room.

There were things he still had to do to her; he never got to touch her enough. Their time was so short, the reality of getting caught limiting what they could do. Usually they were just so eager to see each other that they started mating at the first possible moment, not stopping until they fell asleep, still wound together. It was rare, too rare, that he could take his time with her, build her up and watch her wriggle and sigh for him. Now he'd be able to do what he wanted, finally fully have her at his whim. Make her do some of those things he'd been dreaming of.

That was if she'd managed to lie to her mother. He set his jaw as an unhappy scowl twisted his face. What if she hadn't? He'd never get her to his den, short of picking her up, telling her mother to sod off, and running away with her. While that had a certain charm, the odds of him actually doing it were slim. Not only because Preia would Crucio or Avada Kedavra him from behind, even simply for the fun of it, but also because Delphia would turn those wide, lovely eyes on him and pout with a trembling lip. How could he not indulge her, do whatever she wanted, when she looked at him that way? He wasn't stupid: he knew she manipulated him with that, using it to get what she wanted, to change the tide in whatever it was that was happening. He also knew that he always caved when she moped so prettily, looking about ready to cry. It had been Gorath's weakness, and he had always laughingly mocked the man for giving into his little girl's every fancy. Now he was getting a full dose of it himself, in Gorath's revenge from the grave he entertained, snickering to himself.

No, she _had_ to have done something to get away from her mother for a day, for some measure of respite with him. Unless she didn't want him as much as he thought she did; perhaps she really did just want the excitement of him without the commitment and truly being part of his life. Perhaps she was happy with their arrangement as it was, with him coming to her every couple nights. Could he live with that? Knowing his mate didn't truly want to be his mate? Who else would he take on as his partner though? There was no one that leapt to mind. Unfortunately the closest thing he could think of, the best second for any reason, was Aneya, and there was no way in hell he'd have her. Delphia might have annoyed him at times, made him want to put his head through a wall, but Aneya was worse. And she didn't have that sweet, well-bred innocence clinging to every horrific thing she did; an innocence Fenrir was still enjoying unwinding and thoroughly corrupting, while, somehow, coddling it.

She wanted him. There was no other option. The moon wouldn't have handed her to him if she wasn't to be in his life. He killed with her, shared in the hunt then possessed her body fiercely, like a man without water for days suddenly stumbling on a lush oasis. His body ached for her, it truly did, and he wanted to be able to feel her captured protectively against him, pressed under his weight as he just clutched her. Her skin felt so good against his, her body so soft and supple, so easy to just take as he liked. There was no other way to put it: she was thoroughly, absolutely _delicious_ and he couldn't get enough. Was it right to desire a girl with this force? Did he care? No; she had to take her place as his proper mate within the pack. And she would, or he'd force her to. There were no options.

Bouncing his head gently against the back of the chair, Fenrir stared up at the decorated ceiling. He'd give her the benefit of the doubt, something he never gave anyone. She had told him she wanted to go, had only needed his promise of protection to sway her. There, done; she would go with him. Had that been an excuse though? Would she now claim that her mother wouldn't allow her to leave? He shut his eyes and growled at himself, ignoring the feel of startled eyes upon him. Merlin, she enraged him. She didn't even have to be around or speak to get him worked up and to make his mind a ragged, scrambled mess. His thoughts swam, trying to lock down on something plausible. A triumphantly humoured snort after a length of time; he would drag her off, just as he thought he would. Only this idea would work. If she said no, he'd cite to her family that they had to hunt, had to practice on living flesh, then bring her to his den instead. That wasn't difficult. Either way he won.

So much for believing in her. Now he just had to wait until around dinner time to make his usual appearance.

After work Delphia was fidgety, unable to stop moving or pacing or shifting in a chair. Thankfully Jaeger noticed her pent up energy though he had no idea why (perhaps she didn't hurt anymore and wanted to do something?), and offered to do some spell work with her before dinner. If she wasn't bogged down from work, that was. Her response had been a brilliant grin, glad for any distraction. Jaeger then figured she was edgy from all the paperwork and new responsibility on her shoulders from her boss upping and leaving for Hogwarts. She had to be sick of work, her body yearning for a distraction. He was happy enough to give her said distraction, knowing that she was getting better with curses because of him. That made him proud; he could teach someone, even a person as measly as Delphia, to get better, to become stronger.

A few minutes into the lesson and Jaeger could tell her mind wasn't quite on the task at hand, even if she was trying to concentrate. He could only imagine what was going through her mind, what work she had to do that wouldn't leave her, so he eased up on her for the afternoon, giving her more theory than not. She responded better to theory than pain anyhow. He wasn't supposed to torture her anyway; the age difference between them was too vast for there to be sibling rivalry. If there was anyone to help her, it had to be him. Mother wouldn't, and Makrin and Kieran were too immature to care. So he taught her everything he could about Crucio, even its discovery and development, some of the prominent people it had been used on, who had been tortured to death or insanity with it in the last war, little factoids, still making her practice physically.

When dinner time rolled around, the pair was called to the dining room by a grizzled old elf. He was ugly, ancient and horrifying to behold, but neither Delphia nor Jaeger even blinked at his appearance, having grown up with him like three generations of Sonder children. He was also Preia's favourite, knowing every single nick in the floors, or where an item from a century ago was tucked away. The elf disappeared and the siblings headed for the dining room, forgoing the labyrinthine corridors to duck through a hidden passageway to arrive at a well-concealed side-door in the dining room, passing through the threshold and taking their seats. Preia entered a moment later and sat, Makrin and Kieran joining immediately afterwards. Food appeared on the table; spicy glazed partially deboned quail, fried tournéed potatoes and crisp, garlic smothered vegetables. They all tucked in, everyone hungry as usual, though Delphia couldn't make herself eat as much as she wanted to. Her heart was tap-dancing in her belly, unable to believe that she was actually going to be leaving. Thoughts kept slipping in her head that he wouldn't show up or that if he did, he'd tell her that their time together had to be put off as he had more important things to tend to.

Picking at the medium-well quail, ripping a leg off and sucking the meat delicately off the bone, Delphia tried to clear her mind. Worrying so much wouldn't do. She had to trust in Fenrir, to stop doubting him, to stop doubting _them_. He had to want her, or else he wouldn't spend so much time with her; right? Or did he really enjoy the lessons, looking for any excuse to wantonly kill, seeing her body as a pleasant treat, a reward of sorts, after his fun? An even worse thought flitted in her brain. What if he saw using her as payment, the bargain for instructing her? He didn't have a need for money, she was sure, and so giving him gold in exchange for teaching her was pointless. But what if he still wanted payment, just not with coins? Was that all it was then; was he teaching her simply because he wanted to shag her in compensation for his time?

She sighed to herself, then heard her mother's displeased sigh echo hers as a presence filled the space between herself and Jaeger. Happiness swelled her chest and she looked over at the new figure. He reached over the table to snatch up a quail in his hand. Leaning back, not even looking to her, he ripped off half the flesh into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"It's not horrible," he rasped congenially to Preia as he finished the little bird, popping it in his mouth, leg bones and all. Delphia could hear them crunching between his teeth and had to suppress her urge to giggle.

Preia snorted and glowered at the intruding werewolf. "I'm so glad we have your approval, Greyback."

He snickered and reached for another one, leaning back in his chair again to take a bit longer eating it; four bites this time.

"They are good," Delphia piped up hopefully, not wanting one of her mother's pissing matches at the table, especially with Fenrir.

"I'm surprised he can even tell," Preia mused, her lips slightly pursed. "After all, he likes his meat raw. Don't you, Greyback?"

He barked with laughter and tossed a chunk of potato up in the air, catching it in his mouth. "Raw?" he rumbled, chewing on the starchy vegetable with a slight grimace, "I like it _live_." He grinned toothily at Preia as he swallowed.

Delphia coughed to cover her mirth and her brothers snickered. Preia just snorted again in distaste and picked at her meal. Dining with Greyback was an exercise in patience and generally needed an iron stomach.

After a moment of Delphia steadily eating small bites, her head ducked down, Fenrir turned to her with a frown.

"Aren't you finished yet, whelp?" he growled, eyeing her plate. "We have work to do."

She shrugged and ate some broccoli. "I'm almost done."

He huffed and flung himself back in the chair like a little boy, or an insolent teenager. "You'll take all night at this rate."

Preia rolled her eyes and set her utensils down, side by side. "Speaking of which, Greyback," she spoke up, waiting for him to meet her eye. He took awhile to do so, purposefully keeping his gaze away from hers before whining and tossing his head to glare at her. She gave him a reproachful look, informing him silently that his bratty behaviour was _not_ appreciated. He snickered, sneering wickedly at her.

Clearing her throat, Preia forced a smile. "As I was about to say. Delphia is off to her friend's for the weekend to get some work done for the Ministry. I'm so _very_ sorry to say that your little . . . lesson for the night has to be wrapped up earlier than usual."

Fenrir's brows lifted in surprise as anger flashed in his golden eyes. So Delphia had found an out, had she? The little . . . oh, she'd get hers. He'd tear her clothes off, slam her down on the floor and teach her a _real_ lesson. She had to learn fast who she belonged to. And the more she squirmed and screamed, the more he'd like it; he could only hope she got really angry and tried to fight him, clawing at him as he used her for his greedy pleasure. How _dare_ she avoid him like this?

She nodded and looked up to him, giving him a timid smile. "But I'll be back home Monday afternoon, so if you wish to continue Monday night, that'll be fine." The steady glare he was giving her was enough to cause her to cringe. What was wrong? She had done what he wanted, had made a believable lie for them. Was he just playing up the part, making himself peeved that she was "unavailable" for his instruction without forewarning him?

"You should have told me earlier," he barked, visibly bristling, "so I wouldn't have wasted my time."

Preia immediately sensed danger and scowled at Fenrir. "Be quiet," she snapped, jabbing her finger in his direction, "she only told me on Thursday so she didn't have the chance to inform you. This isn't her fault. Don't you _dare_ take it out on my child."

He blinked at Preia, nodding sullenly to her, knowing he had to accept his place in her home. Here he wasn't Alpha, she was, and he had to respect her command over her family and guests. But Thursday? That meant . . . that meant Delphia _was_ purposefully avoiding him. Rage seethed through him. He was going to absolutely _savage_ her, until she acquiesced that _he_ was her master and she'd obey him blindly. He would fuck her until she screamed out her sobs, claw and bite her to a bloodied morass of well-used, wounded flesh.

Delphia sighed and shifted her weight, standing slowly as she put her knife and fork aside. They may as well actually do some work, seeing as she was spending the weekend with him. Wouldn't he be thrilled that she managed to get not only a day, but a potential _four_ nights with him? He had to be covering up his excitement with this anger she was seeing and sensing. It wouldn't be good for anyone to wonder why he was so happy that she was away for him for a few days.

A warm, enticing smell washed over Fenrir and he found himself inhaling deeply, wrapped in the come-hither scent ebbing off the girl beside him. She was still in heat; his instinct put up a bit of a battle with the rest of him, urging him to protect and coddle her and to have her for her pleasure. He shivered slightly, fighting with himself as he stood, grumbling somewhat. Delphia shyly took the lead, guiding him out of the dining room, walking through the mansion with him to her chambers. He had wanted to grab her and haul her off but somehow he managed to hold back, his instinct to mate and worship competing spectacularly with his much larger force of anger and the want to brutalise her. She slipped into her parlour room and turned to him with a bright grin as he shut the door behind him.

"Well?" she quipped gesturing around as she shrugged. "Was that good enough?"

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head, completely bewildered. "What?" he grunted.

Her grin faltered and her arms fell. "My lie," she said softly, hugging herself then. Oh no. He didn't want the weekend with her, he had just wanted a night. It wasn't like he loved her or anything (she felt an acute pain in her chest when she thought that), he just enjoyed toying with her body. She stared up at him as a telltale burning began behind her eyes, threatening her with the prospect of tears. Why did he only need her for short periods of time? Why didn't he want to be with her for more than a night?

"Your . . . your lie?" he repeated, thinking fast, dread and shame washing over him as he realised what Preia's words had been. Oh Merlin, he had been so wrong about her. He stood there in stunned silence, watching her chin tremble. Damn it! He had told himself to give her the benefit of the doubt and he hadn't. Now his mate was going to cry and he had no idea what upset her so much, but something he did had. He sighed and stepped over to her, drawing her in close.

"Why don't you want me for more than a night?" she blurted out, anger twisting her face. "Do I bother you so much that you cannot stand me for more than a day? I can return home tomorrow morning if you so greatly desire tossing me out of your bed," she added, positively spitting out her words.

His spine shivered at her vehemence, his stomach fluttering and contracting in delight. He nuzzled her neck and grinned broadly. She had no idea how eternally adorable she was when worked up, did she? How hungry her vicious anger always made him. She thought he didn't want her? He wanted to laugh; Merlin she was dense.

"Of course I want you," he snapped back, withdrawing from her to give her a good, quailing stare. He could feel his erection already growing, pushing against the tight restraints of his robes. Excitement tore through him, making him almost giddy. He had wanted this for a long, long time. Too many nights he had gone to ask, no, _beg_ her for this, but he had always become so wrapped up in fucking her that he forgot. He tore off his robes. Delphia didn't even blink, so used to seeing him do this.

"It's time for your lesson," he rasped, gripping her shoulders. He was trying not to grin some more, and throw away his whole "I'm dominant and I swear I'm not your slave" charade. "Get on your knees. You'll need this lesson if you're to survive the next few mornings."

Delphia's brows lifted and she gave him a startled, disbelieving stare. What had he just said? She couldn't believe his audacity.

He sighed and pressed down on her shoulders, using enough force to make her legs buckle. She was putting up a bit of a struggle, trying to stand upright, fight his strength. His length throbbed, engorging fully at that; he so loved a good tussle.

"On your knees," he repeated, eyes glinting ferally. He watched as her gaze flickered down at his rigid penis, wondering if she realised she had licked her lips. A haze came over her eyes and he could hear her panting. That was enough to make him groan. She wanted it. He figured she was probably mad at him if her negative reaction to his demand was any indication, and he would never figure out why she was irate, but she was still salivating, eager to please him nevertheless.

It was his turn to pant as Delphia dropped to her knees, staring at him, her tongue peeking out of her mouth. She looked so damned _innocent_, so inquisitive. It made his blood burn and pulse, seizing him as a heated mass of flesh. With feathery gentleness she licked at him, drawing her tongue slowly up his shaft. He whimpered, gripping her head in his hands as he tried to slip the tip between her lips. Her eyes flew to his and her gaze became sultry at the enraptured expression on his face. Lips parting, she opened her mouth for him and he groaned, pressing the head into her mouth.

"Suck," he rasped, wanting to say more, to whine, plead, entreat her, unable to do a thing but writhe there at her mercy. She started sucking, her head bobbing slowly. Her eyes were locked on his as she knelt before him, his fingers curled in her hair, urging her silently to go faster. She gurgled around him, taking more eagerly, marvelling at how hot and stiff he was. He thrust, trying to force more in her mouth and she whined, tugging away from him, her eyes becoming fearful. Immediately he stopped, stroking her hair instead, basking in the wet feel of her lips sliding willingly along him. He couldn't push her or he'd risk never getting this again. Every muscle in his body went to jelly; he would go easy on her, as long as she never stopped doing this for him.

She liked this. Her eyes widened at the revelation even as she sank into the sordid, submissive deed. Oh Merlin she liked it. She looped her arms around his hips, leaning into him, lifting herself up for better leverage. He moaned as she purred, the suckling pressure becoming harder, her eyes drifting shut as her lips pouted around his flesh. It felt so good pleasuring him like this, devouring him as fully as she could. A strange, salty taste flooded her tongue and she wrinkled her nose, trying to pull away as she swallowed it down to be rid of it. He shivered above her, wrenching her back to him, holding her in place as he started rocking in and out of her mouth. His breathing was heavy, shifting to hungry moans.

He quivered, bliss erupting through him as his body tensed. Roaring his pleasure he held her there as he hit his euphoric, god-like climax, gasping and whining through it. His semen spilled onto her tongue and he was cooing mindlessly to her, stroking her hair lovingly as he implored her to start swallowing. She didn't quite like the idea, but she couldn't refuse him with him touching her like that, his voice beseeching. Besides, his grip was fast on her and she couldn't move. Huffing as she lifted her eyes to his, nearly swooning at the gaze he was giving her, she gulped. And nearly choked, eyes going wide, finding it next to impossible to actually swallow with something lodged in her mouth. Whimpering, she tossed her head gently. He debated for a moment then let up slightly, allowing her to suck on the end of him, watching her throat work, feeling her tongue pressing against him.

Merlin, _Merlin_: that had been too good. His fingers slipped from her hair and he just stood there, utterly limp, unable to move. He swayed slightly, fighting for air, groaning deep in his chest. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, still looking to him. He growled and hugged her head against his belly, rocking her, making her giggle and squirm.

"I've never done that before," she mumbled from his abdomen. He grinned into the room, laughing to himself at her words.

"I know, little one," he rasped, stroking her hair adoringly. She hadn't done anything before, had she? It was horrible that her body had been wasted for so long, but at least now she had someone to use her well. Then again, it was probably better this way. He could imagine her disappointment and how jaded she would have become if some stupid, bumbling boy had bedded her. She was hungry for fulfilment and no kid groping her at Hogwarts would have given her what she needed.

"Was it alright?" she wondered, drawing back when his grip on her head loosened.

He snickered and tried not to laugh outright. Alright? Merlin, she had to be joking. While she definitely needed practice (a prospect he was greatly looking forward to), there was no way anyone could have defined that as anything less than ethereally glorious.

"Practice," he told her, smiling fiendishly as he raked his claws through her hair. "You were wonderful," he consoled gruffly when she drooped, looking utterly defeated. "All you have to do is practice."

"I'm sure you'd enjoy that," she muttered darkly, turning her face away.

"Of course I will," he barked, falling to his knees before her, giving her a good glower until she was forced to meet his gaze. He couldn't understand it, but she was hurt. Had she really taken his quip to heart? He hadn't meant to put her out of sorts.

He sighed and yanked her against him, frowning over her head as she tumbled into his chest. His arms settled around her and he kissed her temple.

"Stop being mopey," he breathed, "I'm just glad you swallowed."

"I didn't have a choice," she snapped, crossing her arms.

"Damn it whelp," he snarled, "stop it. Toughen up; you're too sensitive."

"You said I was bad!" she cried, "I'd never done that before!" Truly, she was surprised she had done it at all. Couldn't he see how much of a concession it was for her, for a pure-blood woman, to get on her knees before _any _man, let alone a werewolf? Thankfully she had enjoyed it; although she didn't know if she was supposed to.

He rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation. "Stop it. I said you were wonderful. Take a bloody compliment when you get it whelp, and stop grating my nerves."

"You're awful," she snapped, hitting him before sulking fully against his body, pouting.

He chuckled and squeezed her. "Am I now?" he rasped in her ear, nipping at her lobe. Her body twitched and she inhaled sharply, her arms falling as she leaned against him. "That's more like it," he groaned, thankful to whatever black, blood-soaked deity that had spawned him that she was receptive beyond all hell to him. Sliding his hands up her shirt, he shoved her bra out of his way and gripped her breasts. She whined, wriggling against him.

Kissing her hair with a smirk, he straightened her clothes and withdrew, lounging back on his arms. She remained sitting, gasping for air. He could smell her arousal and he knew he had to get her to his den, soon.

"Are you sane, now?" he wondered, grumbling somewhat as he dragged himself away from her and stood.

She scowled and looked over to him, her eyes becoming slits. Had he just manipulated her with her own body? Never in her life had she felt so thoroughly violated. "You mangy, little ha–"

"_Don't_," he interrupted her, snarling as he held up a hand, his eyes wild, "even think about saying that word." He forced himself to pause, took a deep, strained breath and shut his eyes for a moment. She was going to test his patience until he died: he knew it. He wanted to smack her into submission but he also knew that it would get him no where. Besides, he didn't want to mar her pretty flesh in such an awful way. She was to be bitten tenderly, scratched and clawed as he brought her to repeated, body-churning climaxes. Never hit. He had to calm down. She was angry; he had to accept that. She was his mate, not a youngling.

Taking another breath that was supposed to be soothing he opened his eyes to slits. "Never say that word. And I'm not little."

A smile started cracking on her irritated face and after a moment she was giggling and blushing, shaking her head woefully.

"I'm sorry, Fenny," she sighed, shrugging self-consciously. She raked a hand through her hair. "I was just upset that I disappointed you."

He blinked and his anger fell, shattering on the floor. His chest felt wrenched and he nearly cringed, absolutely willing at this time to forget what stupid name she had called him by. "Whelp," he grunted, shaking his head in stunned amazement, "you _didn't_ disappoint me. Quite the opposite," he added, his voice uncharacteristically soft. She was incensed because she thought she hadn't pleased him, that he was dissatisfied with her? She had to be insane to even consider that; and he knew it was his own ruddy fault. He really had to learn to temper his words better. At least for her sake.

"Really?" she wondered, hopeful elation suddenly radiant on her face, staggering him.

He stared at her in wonderment. "Really," he repeated on a gentle rasp. Looking her over, he sighed. "Do you want a real lesson tonight? We still have time."

Delphia grinned at him and nodded. "Of course I do, Fenrir."


	33. Chapter XXXII: Escape

Omg im sooo sorry O_O My life has been so hectic... and amazing... and yeah, suchness, that I've just totally forgot about everything superfluous o_o I remembered, randomly, yesterday that I had a fanfic I should be working on ^_^;; Heh, when I remembered, my jaw actually dropped and I felt bad for never updating. Well, here we are, some more Fenny-Phia for all. Plz enjoy.

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Chapter XXXII: Escape

The room was spinning. She was the axis of her bedroom and everything was swirling around her. Her eyes were wide but barely seeing, her head buzzing and spiralling as she panted, dragging air into her lungs. Fenrir grinned down at her, also breathless, his chest labouring as his body struggled for oxygen. He hadn't _meant_ to, he really hadn't. In all fact, he had been planning on waiting until she was at his den to attack her ceaselessly, causing her to cry surrender in the form of his name. It had just happened and had been absolutely ecstatic because of it.

Delphia giggled and slapped playfully at his shoulders, everything beginning to settle, the vertigo calming down. He was still panting above her, looking flushed and proud. Heat tinged her flesh as well, her whole body thrumming, positively singing with euphoria.

"Can't I escape your clutches for even _two_ hours?" she exclaimed, still laughing, her breathing heavy as she spoke.

"Never," he growled in return, ducking his head momentarily to kiss the bloody bite above her breast. Her flesh was so delicious, her blood the sweetest elixir he had ever known. Fresh kills were as nothing compared to her body. He could nip and lick and claw her all he liked and she wailed for more. Kills were entertaining but not in this way. A victim shrieked, sobbing for mercy as they were rent limb from limb; it was beautiful. Nothing though, was as beautiful as a woman sprawled beneath him, coming from his bites, screaming for more rather than less, begging him to continue instead of stop. He loved the sight of her bloodied after his amorous attentions and was ensnared by how she accepted it.

She was smiling up at him, her face adoring, eyes perpetually tender it seemed. Her hand lifted and she was stroking his cheek so gently he could barely feel it, his whiskers tickling the pads of her fingers. A satisfied sigh escaped her as she relaxed, her arm falling to the bed.

Fenrir flashed another blissful grin and lazed out in the bed beside her, his arm curling around her shoulders. It had been a good, legitimate lesson. They hadn't _finished_ the lesson, but he had tried. He had only lost his mind and absolute semblance of himself when she had stripped naked before him, seizing his cock in her hand. She had tugged demandingly at him and planted a hot, wet kiss on his mouth. How could he not react to that temptation, to her challenge? She had been the instigator, drawing him back to the bed, lounging out for him to take her as he liked. And Merlin he had liked it. He rode her savagely, blinded to everything except her moans and his own fierce pleasure. Apparently he had bitten and scratched her in his frenzy as she was smeared with blood and covered in fresh wounds. The scent of her torn flesh and well-used body was astoundingly comforting and gratifying.

She was absolutely gorgeous. He nuzzled the side of her head. Blood trickled down her skin and dribbled onto the sheets, each droplet soaked up thirstily by the fabric, the stains slowly spreading, deepening in colour. Each splash of colour had become ruby before clotting had started to set in. He ran his palm over her, smudging her blood, making streaks of red and brown on her nearly white skin. She just smiled passively at him, her head turning slightly to look in his eyes. Nudging her forehead with his he kissed the corner of her mouth and sat up with a grunt of effort. Delphia sighed and sat up with him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing.

"Sorry," she grumbled sheepishly, her grin betraying her true thoughts. "I couldn't stop myself."

He snorted with laughter and shook his head, his tangled mane of hair shifting, some locks freeing themselves spontaneously. "I thought you wanted a real lesson," he teased, wryly glancing back at her.

"I did," she stated stubbornly, rubbing his almost smooth back then. Ridges and bumps from old and newer scars (and her own added scratches from her nails) broke up the toned, rangy mass of him. He groaned and moved into her touch, his eyes fluttering. "It's just that I had to watch you move and your muscles . . ." she groaned in ecstasy. "And then every time you touched me my belly just . . ." she trailed off and sighed, resting her head against his shoulder, her hand curling around him to rest on his thigh. "I couldn't stop myself," she remarked dreamily.

Chuckling hoarsely, he shifted and placed a perfunctory kiss on her mouth, enjoying her affectionate smile, the flutter of her eyelids. Then he slipped from her, smirking as she fell forward and had to catch herself, not having him to lean on any longer. She watched him as he went for his robe, tossed aside long ago and tried to tug it on. Looking exasperated with his struggles, she slid from the bed and went to him, yanking on the cloth to bring him to her. He stopped moving and stood straight, allowing her to pull on the robes, forming them to him, setting them around his frame before smoothing them out, tugging here or there so they'd fit better.

"It's good having you around," he rasped, earning a quirked brow and an utterly feminine glower.

"Of course it is," she snapped playfully, squeezing his arm and leaning up for a kiss. He gazed at her for a moment, considering it until he got another look. Then he grinned and pressed his mouth down on hers, capturing her in his arms. He kissed her thoroughly, until she was panting again and going limp.

"Bastard," she groaned when he let her go, her eyes closing while licking her lips.

Smirking he lowered his head and audibly sniffed over her shoulder. "My bitch is wet," he mocked, earning a smack on his bicep.

"You're awful," she remarked ruefully as he straightened up, her cheeks tingeing pink.

A wicked, leering grin. "That's not what you were saying just ten minutes ago, whelp."

"Fenrir," she drawled warningly, turning a becoming red. He was starting to like it when she blushed. She did it so frequently when he was enjoying himself that it was growing on him. "Can we speak seriously for even one minute?"

He thought for the duration of that minute then nodded his ascent. "Alright," he grunted.

"How are we getting out of here together?"

Her words made him freeze as harsh reality swept over him. She was so good at creating a little world for them where nothing but their mutual pleasure existed. He hadn't even considered an actual escape, never considering it to be a problem when he was plunging gleefully within her. Moving blankly from her he plopped down on the edge of the bed and stared wide-eyed at the floor, thinking hard. Delphia let him chew her question over, hopefully coming up with an answer as she dressed.

"I can pretend to leave," he started as she gathered her robes. "And wait for you outside out of sight." Falling silent, he continued to think, mapping out a plan as if he was staging a hunt.

"Should I bother with my bra?" she interrupted, examining her undergarments.

He shook his head. "Don't bother; you'll barely be able to get dressed. Then you can leave the house," he went on as if the topic hadn't changed.

"Panties?" she wondered then, examining her skirt.

Grunting, he shook his head negative once again. "I'll wait for you by the Apparation point."

"Should I even bother with clothes at all?" she mused suddenly, too loudly, holding up her robes, still naked.

He slitted his golden eyes in her direction and snorted. "Are you going to continue to distract me?"

She giggled and yanked on her clothes, sitting with him when respectable, folding her hands in her lap. "Continue," she allowed.

Rolling his eyes and snorting again, he let out a heavy breath. "I'll go soon and scout the area. When I'm sure that there's no one around to spot either of us, I'll throw a rock at your window." He grinned. "I'm sure there's a few littering the ground out there."

"I do wonder how you'd know," she remarked, feigning curiosity.

"_And then_," he continued, pointedly ignoring her, "you have to leave for 'your friend's' house. I guess you have to pack a bag," he mumbled, frowning in thought.

"I can do that now," she returned, jumping up to grab her knapsack, filling it with things she thought she might need. Her dagger, her wand, some books; the essentials were all piled in.

Fenrir waited for her to return to his side, looking at her as she settled on the bed, her bag clutched in her lap. "Got everything?" he wondered.

She shrugged. "No clue. I have my wand, so I should be fine."

A low growl emanated from his throat. "Useless twigs."

Shooting him a look, she scowled slightly. "Yes, well, a useless twig that will keep me safe and secure."

"That's my job," he snapped, nearly fuming.

Her brows lifted at that and she smiled faintly before gesturing for him to continue.

"Wait a little while after I throw the rock at your window," he growled, somewhat discomforted by his reaction. "Leave as if you're going to your friends and meet me at the Apparation point. I'll wait there for you."

"How are we getting to your den?" she wondered, drumming her fingers on the bag covering her thighs.

He grunted at that. "Side-by-side. I'll get us there and then you'll know where it is, so you can come anytime you like. I'll show you where the wards are so you won't get hit by them."

She nodded. "Alright. Are we going now?"

Looking to her, he slowly stood, allowing his gaze to linger. "Yes," he rumbled softly before walking away, heading for her door and slipping through. He walked out of her chambers and down through the mansion to the front door, leaving much earlier than he normally did.

Delphia sat there, perched on the edge of her bed, alone. She could still smell them in the room, a maddening scent that she was beginning to pick up on twinging in her mind. It was the smell of _them_, their union and partnership. Through the haze she could discern a sense of ownership in the air, realising his possession of her was more than a physical need. It was instinctual, leaving his mark on her so others would be forewarned. Her body belonged to a powerful Alpha; approach with caution. She smiled at that realisation, the awareness at being protected warming her. His vehement statement had been a lot more than a passionate declaration; it was his duty and instinct.

A moment passed, then another; something cracked against her window suddenly and she leapt a tad, looking immediately to the intact glass. Fighting the self-indulgent grin, she stood and tested her legs before leaving her rooms to go say good-bye to her mother. Nerves were weakening her as she strode down through the mansion, going to the family parlour room. Mother was most likely there and if she wasn't, she'd have an elf track her down. Her stomach roiled and every intake of breath was irregular. Delphia wasn't sure if she could do this. The pain from her twisting gut was almost as bad as the cramps she had completely forgot about. She shook, forcing her feet to take each step, making her way through the maze of corridors. What if her mother had changed her mind and said that she wasn't allowed to go? Something even worse flitted in her mind and caused her to gasp shakily. What if her mother had figured it all out and she was heading right into her clutches for a punishment? If her mother found out about she and Fenrir, she'd be lucky to get away from her alive. Her brow furrowed in worry as she whimpered, hugging her bag to her chest. No, she couldn't know. She had to shake this fear and paranoia, or else her mother _would_ suspect something. Closing her eyes for a brief second Delphia steadied herself. Then she put one foot in front of the other, steeling herself, eyes going hard as she walked assuredly to the parlour room. All she had to do was pretend she was really going to Katrine's. There was nothing that her mother could wonder about, nothing she could have heard or seen.

The parlour door loomed before her. She stared at it for a long minute before forcing her hand to the knob, twisting it and pushing the door open. Stepping inside she was relieved to see her mother in the usual ugly chair, a book in her hands. Her eyes lifted slowly to her daughter and she gave her an impatient look.

"Yes?" Preia demanded, her icy eyes inquisitively uncaring.

Delphia smiled in what she hoped was a respectful, off-handed way, shifting the weight of her bag to her shoulder, slinging it around her back.

"I'm leaving now," she informed her, sounding utterly calm and relaxed.

Preia heard an edge in Delphia's voice, a hint of a trembling. She had to strain to take note of it however, try and pick it out. She figured the girl was just nervous about going to a friend's house. She had never done such a thing before.

"Greyback left?" she wondered.

Nodding, Delphia shrugged slightly, hampered by the weight of her bag. "A little while ago. He wasn't too happy," she added on impulse, hoping it would help cover her tracks.

Preia snorted. "He's never happy unless he's disembowelling someone. Don't take it personally, child."

Delphia sighed dramatically and shook her head. "I think he was just mad that I wasn't the one to tell him I would be gone. I don't even think he cares; he just wants control." She wanted to giggle; that sounded good even to her ears.

Apparently Preia thought so as well, smiling bitterly and conspiringly with her daughter. "It's his way. For a half-breed he has quite the ego."

Delphia snorted and rolled her eyes. "Well, perhaps he just learned a lesson."

Giving her daughter a sharp look, Preia closed her book gently on a finger, holding her place open. "He's earned his ego. Your father wasn't friends with him for nothing. He's friends with the Malfoy's as well so you must regard him with deference. Half-breed or not, he's formidable."

Her brows lifted in surprise at the way her mother was speaking. "Mother, do you _respect_ Greyback? I thought you hate him?"

Preia sighed. Her daughter was so naive sometimes. "Of course I loathe him, but that doesn't mean I cannot respect him. He serves the Dark Lord, is ferocious and very good at leading masses into fights. That your father respected him is enough for me; I just don't _like_ the beast."

Delphia nodded at that, actually thinking on it. "Well, he wasn't mean to me, he hasn't ever been. Just very short tonight. Impatient."

Preia shook her head and shrugged. "That's what he's like without a corpse to maul. I'm glad he accepted my warning. I'd hate to put him down; our cause needs someone like him."

Not him, Delphia realised after a moment, just someone like him. Anyone could take his place, but as he was the one filling it and the best in their world at what he did, they had to accept him.

"Anyhow," Preia went on, opening her book back up, "I'm glad you're unharmed. You should leave now; your friend will be wondering what's taking you. I dread to think how you'd explain yourself," she added dryly, a hint of a smile toying with her lips.

Delphia smiled slightly and ducked her head, nodding then. "You're right mother, I should leave; it's getting late. I'll be back sometime Monday," she added in parting before turning to leave. That had been easy. Her mother had sent her off herself. She hadn't had to bring it up or beg off, pleading with her to let her go. Delphia quickly made her way through the mansion, hurrying to the front door, just in case her mother's mind changed and an elf appeared to drag her back into the depths of her home. She wouldn't be denied her escape. Never in her life had she done anything, anything at all, and now it was time to come into her own. Mother had no reason to suspect her of wrongdoing; Delphia was the good child, the obedient, meek one, the one who responded well to a raised hand or wand. She did what she was told, toed the line and never, ever did anything uncouth. The closest she had come to bringing a stain on their family name was to accept tutelage from Fenrir Greyback, and as the Dark Lord Himself supported it, no one could say it was wrong. Or they risked insulting the Dark Lord, bordered on questioning His decisions.

No, Delphia had been the perfect little girl, doing what mommy said, living up to her father as best she could, failing fabulously in almost everything she did. She had never been in real trouble at Hogwarts, only a few admonishings from Snape for being out past curfew. Not even a detention. And at home, she had always been in the house, trying to never cross her mother's thin line, accepting her punishments when she did.

She left the house, walking quickly through the gardens, not looking at the path. It was habit, the twisting flagstones winding around sections of the garden so well-tread that she could get anywhere she wanted without having to think about it. Approaching the Apparation point she thought she smelled something familiar. It was the smell of dirt and blood and a man with too much testosterone. She inhaled and nearly shuddered, knowing he was there, filled with excitement at the prospect of what they were doing.

Fenrir emerged from the bushes, picking leaves and twigs off his robes. He dropped each bit to the ground before raking his nails through his hair, tearing out the foliage stuck there. Delphia giggled at him and stepped over, helping him tidy up.

"Bushes are nice," he grumbled off-handedly, almost to himself, "unless they have prickers in them." Tugging at a thorn piercing his hand, he winced and tossed it to the ground. "This one did."

She started laughing and stroked his cheek, fussing consolingly over him. "Will you be alright?" she teased, murmuring her approval when his arm curled around her waist.

He snorted and scanned the area before looking to her. "I think I'll survive," he muttered at length. "My robes got the most of it."

She glanced down and studied the black cloth, realising he was right. "Well," she began, shrugging, "clothing is really just replacement fur."

A brow lifted and he gave her a quailing look. "Don't even start, whelp. I'm not wearing clothes unless I have to. End of story."

Smirking and leaning up, she pecked his cheek softly. "Good," she stated as she settled back down on the flats of her feet, blushing somewhat as she plunged on. "I prefer you naked anyway."

He grinned and nuzzled her face, feeling the heat of her blood just under the surface of her skin. "Hold onto me," he instructed, groaning at the feel of her pressing into him, her arms around his waist. He clutched her, thinking of home. The world was pulled away from them, or they from the world, as everything went black and they were crushed to their limits of tolerance. Then suddenly the world expanded and Delphia looked around as Fenrir's arms slackened about her.

They were on what seemed to be a meadow, a dilapidated house a few metres before her. She gasped as the full weight of the situation hit her. She had done it; she was really there with him.


	34. Chapter XXXIII: Wands Have Uses, too

Its been awhile! Busy woman here... been thinking the past few days that I seriously need an update. So here ya go! I really have to get back to writing and I don't know if I can find the time. But I will try; there's good stuff coming later in the story, and I would really like to get it done. Its going to be quite long and again, its just finding TIME to do it all. Anyway, enjoy, read review all that good stuff.

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**Chapter XXXIII: Wands Have Uses, too**

Delphia wasn't too impressed by what she saw as she gazed upon Fenrir's den. Something told her that the run-down, almost crumbling look wasn't an illusion to scare intruders away. It really was falling apart, the stoop sagging a bit, half the windows boarded up with wood to keep out drafts and inclement weather. The whole outside needed to be re-done and painted, the inside was probably infested with Merlin only knew what and it did not look homey at all. But it was his house and she had promised. Reaching over to him she slipped her hand in his, looking up. She had heard about the Weasley house, and what a run-down shack it was, but she hazarded a good guess that it was pristine and nice-looking compared to this.

Fenrir scuffed at the ground with his toes, pushing back grass and dirt to better expose a stone plaque Delphia hadn't been able to see. He pointed to it with a soft grunt, calling her attention.

"Always land here," he told her as she examined the stone, trying to read the etching on it. She couldn't tell if they were words or just scratches and wear from rain. "You have a foot allowance to appear, with this as the centre. Keeps out Aurors," he tacked on with a fiendish grin. "Stay away from the wards, whelp – your father taught me a trick or two back in the day. I can't truck you off to St Mungos."

She smirked and nudged him with her elbow, humoured by the thought of that. It was funny trying to imagine Fenrir Greyback carrying her into the midst of the bustling wizarding world, demanding medical attention for her. Oh, that wouldn't have been good. But so hilarious to consider.

"If you're unsure, you can Apparate further back," he said, turning and motioning behind them. "Where the field of wild grasses starts my wards end. It's a bit of a walk, so I'd suggest you just Apparate here." He nudged the stone again with his dirty toes and snorted, looking a bit forlorn. Delphia could sense it, nearly smelling it on him. Something upset him for a moment before he looked back at her and substantially brightened. "C'mon whelp," he said, almost cheerfully in his gruff way, "you need to meet my – your – pack."

Her brows arched at that but she allowed him to drag her to the dingy house. She didn't really want to go inside but she had committed herself to a weekend here. For a few days she'd not only have to be inside the den, but actually _live_ there. It was almost horrifying to consider. There would be no house-elves to wait on her, that was for sure. He took her up the chipping, slanted stoop, past weed-ridden patches of what had once been gardens. They had obviously been untended for decades. A few wild herbs thrived, hidden amongst the useless plants, almost impossible for the untrained eye to pick out. She could barely spot them, wondering if they had just happened there, or had once had a place in that dirt, put there on purpose with loving hands, growing wild from being uncared for. Her eyes went to Fenrir as he opened the door, barging into his house with her alongside him. Somehow she just couldn't imagine him sowing and nurturing plants. It wasn't like him. And if he didn't, no one in his pack would she assumed, guessing that they figured it pointless if he found it pointless.

The front hall once had a lantern hanging in it Delphia reckoned, glancing around the small area. A line of dusty hooks, most broken or fallen upside-down on their remaining nail, were on the wall to her left. On the right, further in, was a large opening that had doors at some point in the house's history. Now it was a gaping hole from which light and sound radiated. Fenrir started her down the hall towards the room beyond the door-less threshold, just making it to the entryway when a naked, lithe, black haired woman stepped through. She jumped slightly, startled at the sight of her Alpha back so early. Before she saw anyone else, she could smell them, a feminine scent more than that of heat, which was also present. Her brows rose as she turned her head, her cherub face a mask of wonder, her full lips slightly pursed. Even hard living as a werewolf hadn't ruined her natural beauty. In a way, becoming feral had only enhanced it.

The girl before Aneya was slouching a bit, her head ducked down as she leaned into Fenrir, her fingers twining with his. She smirked, snorting at the sight. Leave it to Fenrir to land himself the most forbidden of fruits. Any witch would have been bad enough, but Aneya could see the well-bred stock, sense the fact that in all ways she was pure-blood. Naturally she was a Death Eater. Even if she hadn't known that Fenrir's mate was one, she would have deduced that in a second. An odd strength vibrated from her, a solidness from deep within. When trained properly, she would be formidable; Aneya knew that as well just as quickly as she knew who and what she was. As it was the girl reeked of trepidation and unease, yet she stood there calmly, clinging to their Alpha, trusting him absolutely. No matter how Fenrir infuriated Aneya sometimes, he was a good man and leader, and seeing his mate pressing to him like that was touching.

"Alpha," she murmured, the shock at his presence so soon after leaving settled as she started to understand, "you're home."

He nodded and grunted, jerking his head towards Delphia. "This is Delphia, my mate. Whelp, this is my Beta, Aneya."

Delphia lifted her head and Aneya drew in a sharp breath. _My,_ she was young, and almost beautiful. Definitely a pretty girl. Her face was arranged nicely, again showing her purity of stock, but it was those burning eyes that made her so marvellously sultry. Fenrir had quite the taste, didn't he? It wasn't enough for him to get a nice, obedient woman who could withstand him. He had to go whole-hog and take the prettiest, youngest girl he could get his dirty paws on. Aneya's only question then was who had instigated it. Their Alpha wasn't stupid; he wouldn't take what he knew he absolutely could not have, especially if she was a fellow Death Eater who still lived with her family. But it was unthinkable that _she_ had gone to him. How the hell had he managed this?

Shaking her head with a chuckle, Aneya nodded to her Alpha female. "So you're the one who's had our Alpha in such a twist lately." Moving closer, she examined Delphia, earning a cautious glower. "You're much sweeter looking than I had imagined," Aneya remarked, nodding to herself. "No wonder he's never in the den."

Fenrir gave Aneya a wicked grin and wiggled his eyebrows, agreeing whole-heartedly, conveying it fully without needing to speak.

Why did everyone think she was so innocent? That was beginning to grate on Delphia's nerves. She was sleeping with a werewolf, and not just any werewolf, and was now in his den. Yet she was still a gentle, placid little girl.

"Should she meet the pack?" Aneya asked then, becoming uneasy from the girl's glower. Her eyes were insanely expressive; no wonder Fenrir was so wrapped up in her. Aneya could only imagine their intensity when he bedded her and thought that any man would be lost. Her poor Alpha, he was totally ensnared and obviously thoroughly enjoying it.

"Of course," Fenrir barked, moving past Aneya when the woman stepped aside to allow her Alpha pair through. Delphia had no idea what she was in for, did she? She may have accepted her place as his mate, but she just couldn't understand the greater ramifications of that.

Aneya was right; Delphia knew intellectually that the Alpha female led with the Alpha male. That meant she was supposed to lead the pack with him. But stepping into the ramshackle living room with partially destroyed furniture made everything come crashing down on her. All around there were naked bodies lounging and talking. A few were eating, snacking on something or other. One woman on the couch was dressed in ragged robes and no one seemed to pay mind to the fact that she was the only one in their midst with clothes on. As the heads turned, Delphia realised that she would be seen as an Alpha. She didn't know how to guide children at Hogwarts, let alone a pack of bloodthirsty, ruthless werewolves. There were no options in the matter, however. She had to either accept her place, or leave Fenrir and that wasn't happening, ever.

"Who's this?" One of the males on the couch shifted his weight, sitting upright to get a good look at the girl beside their Alpha. "She's a pretty one, Greyback." He was about to quip something particularly nasty about him sharing her when he was done until he got a good whiff of the air. Merlin, she was in heat. There was no way Fenrir would share her if that was the case.

"Of course she's pretty," Fenrir snapped, having been informed for the second time in five minutes that his mate was too good for him. "This is my mate," he said, speaking to the group, who looked startled at the news, "Delphia."

Some of the younger ones edged forward, gazing up into her face with unabashed curiosity. They wanted someone new to play with and to wrestle. She didn't look that strong. They could take her on. The older ones were curious as well, but for a completely different reason. Rumours had been spreading about Fenrir having a mate, until they had been practically confirmed by Aneya and the fact that he was always gone. Then it had turned to hushed gossip. Now she was here, the Alpha pair standing before them. Even in robes Fenrir was quite the contrast to her. Whatever they had all been imagining, it definitely hadn't been this.

Delphia just looked around the room at the pack, most eyeing her as cautiously as she was eyeing them. Many of the suspicious glowers came from the bodies on the couch, Aneya drifting over to them and sitting comfortably between the dressed woman and the man who had spoken earlier.

"Not everyone is here," Fenrir commented then, also glancing around, frowning slightly.

Aneya shook her head and idly scratched her knee. "No. I'm sure they wouldn't have gone off if they had known you were bringing your female to us. They're just as curious as we are."

Was she seen as a possession? Something he owned to mate with? Delphia didn't like that idea. It hadn't been the way she was raised. No one she knew ever considered their partner as something they owned: at least, not that she had heard.

"They might see her in the next couple days," he rasped with an uncaring shrug. Who cared if they met her; they had to accept that she was their Alpha female whether they knew her or not. He snickered then, glancing sidelong at her. "On the other hand, they may not get to see her; I'm taking her to my room," he finished, itching to tear off the damned robes clinging to him.

There was an appreciative snicker all around, Delphia going pink at the sound. They knew what he would be getting if she was in his room. The fact that she was his _mate_ said enough. Still, that carried a separate connotation from outright informing people that they were going to his room together. She looked up at him and he felt her movement, turning his head to look down. He gave her a roguish, indulgent grin and she found herself smiling back at him.

"C'mon whelp," he growled, "let's get your junk dumped on my floor. You can worry about the pack tomorrow."

She nodded, her blush still riding high on her cheeks, and allowed him to guide her out of the living room. Not that she had much choice, as she had no idea where anything was. He took her across the room, stepping over legs to the other doorway, again with no doors, flanking the room. They entered a large hallway, almost like an entrance hall with grand stairs that were falling apart, leading to the second floor. She didn't want to walk up those steps, frightened that they would crumble beneath her, but Fenrir was intent on taking her right up. Gripping his hand tightly, she forced herself to follow behind him, ignoring the way the wood creaked and shuddered from their weight. How they weren't buckling under Fenrir was a mystery to her, as he had to be twice her size. Somehow they managed to make it up to the landing safely. There was a door practically right in front of them, recessed a bit in a tiny, short hallway. He opened the door and Delphia stepped through with him, her eyes going wide.

His room was a disaster. The bed was going to fall apart at any minute, there was old furniture that seemed to be steadily losing its stuffing, the wood splintering and cracking. In one corner there was some broken ceramic that looked like it had once been a plate. There were crusty flecks on it. Dirt and grime covered the floor and Delphia realised she was shaking her head much like her mother would when her chores weren't done. Swinging her bag off her shoulder, she strode purposefully to the bed and set it down. Opening the zipper, she yanked out her wand and surveyed the room. At least she had boots on; the floor had to be done first.

"What are you doing?" Fenrir barked in demand, his brow furrowing.

She turned slightly and frowned at him, holding up her wand. "Your room is awful. It needs to be cleaned."

"Don't," he snapped, crossing his arms. "I like my room how it is."

She sighed and looked around again, examining the walls. They were discoloured from age and filth. Something on a wall caught her attention and her brows arched. "Is that blood?" she cried, absolutely startled.

He rolled his eyes. "Probably, whelp. Now get undressed," he commanded, going at his own robes, practically tearing them off in his haste. They were thrown aside, draping over the desk and he sighed in relief. Everything felt so much better when he was naked. Even his mood improved.

"When were your linens last changed?" Delphia demanded, sounding more and more like her mother, looking to him, not even registering that he was nude. It was so common, so usual for him to be undressed that she was becoming used to it.

He shrugged. "No clue," he admitted, staring at her, the look on her face deflating him. He was starting to feel defeated by her assured stance, her narrowed eyes. "Are you really going to clean my room?"

"_Yes_," she stated firmly, coming about so she could continue this conversation without getting a crick in her neck. "If you want me in your bed, then the linens have to be changed."

"I don't have any others," he snapped, wondering why she couldn't just accept her place in his den and leave things the way he liked them. "I can't just walk into a shop, Delphia."

She frowned. "Then I'll go at some point. For now, I'll have to wash them."

He wasn't going to win. His shoulders sagging, he let out a groan and shut his eyes. "Fine. Clean them. There's a stream out back."

Staring incredulously at him, she struggled to find her voice. "A stream out back?"

He snorted. "I doubt you're going to wash them on my floor."

Shaking her head dolefully, she also knew that he had a point. This house was a job for a team of very industrious, dedicated house-elves. That she didn't have. However, she had one that was loyal to herself and could be commanded to talk to no one, not even her mother. And one was better than none.

"Why do you live like this?" she wondered softly. "You don't have to be a wizard to keep things clean."

He glowered at her. She was supposed to go to his bed obediently, gleeful that they were alone together, not caring about her surroundings. She wasn't supposed to comment on anything, just accept that things were how they were. Apparently she figured differently.

"Why should I bother?" he spat, "Everything just gets dirty again."

Delphia threw her hands in the air in exasperation, unable to believe him. "You're incorrigible."

He didn't want to change, didn't wish to start picking up after himself and scrubbing the floors. This was how he, and his pack, were and lived. She had to learn to accept that not everyone lived in a meticulous, sparkling mansion.

"It's a den," he rumbled, moving swiftly towards her, wanting to wrench her wand out of her hand and toss it aside (somehow the feeling tugged familiarly at him), "a structure of wood and stone that's a little better than a cave. I've lived I burrows in the ground, Delphia, under trees, in caves, anywhere I could manage. We don't have houses like you do. _This is my home_, and it isn't changing."

She crossed her arms and frowned, not budging. "While I understand what you're saying, things _are_ changing around here. I will not sleep in a soiled bed and I will not walk around on a grime encrusted floor. As for the rest of your den, do as you wish, but at the very least I _will_ have some semblance of order and cleanliness in the room I am to occupy!" Her voice had become faster, more pressing as she continued, until she was nearly shouting. He stared at her for a moment, aghast, until the laughter burst from him. Unable to help himself, he howled at her vehemence, finding her utterly hilarious. It was that or become angry, and he didn't want a fight.

"Alright," he gasped out, trying to right himself, almost hiccupping, "fine, have your way. Clean all you want. But I'm not helping," he tacked on firmly, standing aside, his arms crossing again as he leaned against a dirty wall. She gave him a baleful glower, tucked her wand into her robes and began stripping the bed. He watched her tear the blankets away until there was nothing but the pillows and a mattress. Arms loaded with cloth she dumped the gathered pile onto the bed and went to the pillows, taking their covers. She added them to the blankets and stormed off past him, struggling to get through the door, ignoring his chuckles. Cheeks flaming, she grunted and forced herself past the threshold, storming down the stairs, forgetting that she had been scared of them earlier.

She followed the hall around the living room, guessing it went to the front door from how the doors were configured. Finding herself correct, she grappled with the knob and almost fell when the door opened. Huffing, she strode primly around the house where she confronted the woods. She almost faltered, but he had said the stream was out back. It had to be there somewhere; her sanity would surely shatter was it not. There was no way she could have used magic on the sheets to clean them. She had to have water, though she would need magic to scrub the masses of cloth once soaked. Walking straight into the trees, she kept going, ignoring the unease that crept over her as darkness grew, the canopy above her growing thicker, blocking out the star- and moonlight. She couldn't reach for her wand, her hands were full, arms stretched to their limits. He had a lot of blankets. From the way the sheets were tangled and bunched up, she doubted he really used them, instead preferring comforters if he so desired warmth.

Moving carefully now, she listened for every little sound in the trees. She could hear animals, bugs, the crunch of soil and twigs beneath her feet. An owl hooted. Another minute or two of careful steps and she could hear a babbling, the smell of water washing over her as she neared. The stream was close, that much she knew. Edging nearer to the sound and fresh, liquid scent, she stepped onto the bank, the toes of her boots sinking in, gently lapped by water. That was far enough. Taking a step back, she dropped the bundle in her arms and knelt at the edge, lighting up her wand. The area was lit in white radiance, causing her to blink. She squinted for a moment then began plunging the sheets and blankets into the tepid water, shaking her head as the stream started to become an opaque grey.

Fenrir had been content to stand there, waiting for her to come running back to him, somehow seeing the error of her ways. When an hour passed, worry began to shift his mood. She still wasn't back; what if something had happened to her? Why the hell did she have to be so stubborn? Getting hurt over some dirty sheets just wasn't worth it. Sighing resignedly, he finally let his arms drop, his muscles aching a tad. Leaving his room, he stormed down the stairs and went out the back door by the kitchen, darting out into the woods. He didn't know where on the stream she was, but he could find her by scent alone if he had to. For there was no where else she could be. Even Delphia couldn't get lost in the woods . . . could she? No, and she wouldn't have returned home, either. That thought frightened him more than the idea of her being hurt. He breathed deep. Calm swept through him. As he had thought, she was in the wood; he could smell her. That intoxicating, utterly feminine scent mixed with the musky scent of her heat filled his nostrils. His mouth watered as his blood pounded in his ears. Oh Merlin she always smelled so delicious.

Making his way through the trees, he knew he had found her when he stumbled on a bizarre, haunting sight. There was white hanging all around, blue flame flickering by the edge of the running water, casting light on all the blankets and trees. In the centre of the scene was a lone figure, stripped down to her shirt and skirt, her robes bunched up beside her. Her hair was lank and damp from sweat and water, hanging about her face and shoulders. She was waving her wand, muttering to herself, scrubbing with her hands now and then as bubbles appeared. He could smell the base ingredients of soap, glad that she wasn't perfuming his things at least. Even in her anger she still thought of his most simple, egotistical needs. He sighed and moved past the gently fluttering cloth, realising that, rather than being up on branches as he had first assumed, they were suspended in mid air with magic. Staring up at a rather decorative comforter that was brighter than it had been in years, even in the ghostly light, he marvelled and remembered the uses magic had. It wasn't _all_ wand-waving shite. Sometimes it was worth knowing. Perhaps having a Feral around was a better idea for more than his cock. She certainly didn't use magic against him, so what would it hurt?

"Whelp?" he murmured, coming up beside her, dropping to his knees.

She grunted in return, waving her wand at the sheet in her hand. It flew off to join the others, hanging without support in the air. Looking over at Fenrir, Delphia sighed and straightened up, wincing at the ache in her back. She reached around and rubbed her spine for a moment, until he shifted and placed his hands on her. He dug his fingers into her tense muscles, careful not to scratch her with his nails. She groaned and shivered, relief coming to her features. Wet locks of dark hair stuck to her face, her cheeks flushed with exertion, her limbs bare to the elements. Fenrir growled low in his throat, intensely aroused by the sight of her. She truly was feral in this moment, a sprite from the trees come to do her laundry. He chuckled at that thought as he leaned over, planting a hungry, open-mouthed kiss on her lips. She jumped in surprise even as she sank into him, drawing her legs from under her. Leaning back, she clutched at his body, her kisses becoming eager as he moved forward, pressing her down into the ground. Her legs spread, her skirt bunching up, and he realised she hadn't been joking earlier about not wearing anything underneath. Growling fiercely he thrust his throbbing erection into her compliant body. His muscles trembled from the relief, the pure ecstasy of her. She moaned, clinging to him as he rode her eagerly, forcing him to hold off as she achieved three body-wracking climaxes. Finally she went limp, allowing him to finish, her blissful sigh tearing through him. He moved madly within her, urged on by her moans, until his seed filled her as he groaned.

They laid there at the side of the stream, panting, tangled together.

"Are you done?" Fenrir wondered after a moment, stroking her hair before licking her face.

She murmured and glanced at the pillow cases lying dirty on the ground. "Almost. Can you help me? You just have to scrub them and pass them to me."

He nodded, rolling off her, kneeling with her at the water. She flicked her wand at the pillow cases and foam built up on them.

"Scrub them in the water," she yawned, rubbing her eyes.

Smirking, he did as she said, looking mischievously to her. "Tired, whelp?" he teased.

She grinned at that, shifting her weight slightly. "Yeah, a little," she allowed, raking a hand through her hair as he rinsed the pillow case off and handed it to her, starting on the next. She examined it, waving her wand over it a few times before it joined its linen brethren, hanging in the air. The steady patter of dripping water was starting to irritate Fenrir by the time they finished. Delphia stood and went to the suspended cloth, using her wand to dry everything. It took a while, Fenrir tapping his foot impatiently in the dirt. She ignored him, then began piling the blankets into his stunned arms. He just stood there, accepting their warm weight, not knowing what else to do or how to argue her. When his arms were laden with his linen, she put out the flame she had conjured earlier. She had to when she realised that using her wand for light _and_ to clean the sheets was impossible.

The area went dark. He could still smell them in the dirt and grass. Using his superior senses and his knowledge of the area, he led them safely out of the trees, back to his house. If his pack saw him now, they'd probably laugh at him acting like a good little house wife. He also knew he had no choice but to grit his teeth and accept their jeers should they come his way. Delphia truly was impossible sometimes. And he loved her for it.


	35. Chapter XXXIV: Hunger, Dirt and Grime

Hey guys, hope everyone is doing well :) Been wanting to write more... but I figured I could at least post another chapter while I debate on spending time writing :P The chapter is nothing major, but something for now :D As always, enjoy and review!

BL

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Chapter XXXIV: Hunger, Dirt and Grime 

Merlin that felt good. Fenrir's head fell back against the pillows, his moans filling the room. He petted and stroked Delphia's hair, urging her on, panting as her tongue swept him, whining ecstatically when he was clutched in warm, wet suckling once again. Gasping for air, he lifted his head, watching her lazily as she serviced him, trembling at the sight. Her hair was tangled from the night, hanging down her shoulders in a tumbling mass of locks. He had to keep stroking it back from her brow so he could properly observe her slavering over his flesh.

"Are you . . . really here for the weekend?" he gasped out, his voice nothing but trembling whispers.

Delphia's eyes met his as she smiled, pulling back. He slipped from her lips with a slight slurping noise and she wiped her chin.

"Yeah," she murmured, nodding. "I really am."

"Don't stop," he growled playfully, clutching her head and forcing her mouth back down. She giggled and engulfed him hungrily, setting back at sucking him, driving him into a back-arching, mind-bending orgasm within minutes. He howled for her, roaring her name as she swallowed. His eyes were wide and he gasped up at the ceiling before sinking into the bed, shivering in delight. This was too good; she was cleaning him, finishing him off – Merlin he liked that. He clawed gently at her hair, cooing to her, a rumble of satisfaction sounding from deep in his chest.

Her dazed, somehow fulfilled eyes went to his and she smiled again, around his flesh before she let him go. She licked her lips and murmured in pleasure as he cleaned off her chin, a few strands of his ejaculate having escaped her eager mouth. He sighed and just continued to pet her, caressing her cheeks, brushing his thumb over her lips.

"Little one," he groaned, his head tipping back contentedly, "I'm stealing you from your mother."

She laughed huskily at that and moved up his body, folding her arms over his chest, resting her chin on her arms. Grinning at him when he glanced at her, he grinned back and squeezed her arse.

"Best good morning I've had in a long time," he added impishly, looking like a boy.

"I would hope so," she shot back, quirking a brow with a thoroughly disapproving, completely adoring glare.

"Really," he rasped, holding a hand over his heart, "I swear on my honour."

"You're awful," she sighed, withdrawing an arm from him so she could properly smack his side. He chuckled and grabbed her wrist as it withdrew, yanking her hard against him.

"I know I am," he grumbled, "and yet you still come back for more."

She mumbled unhappily at that observation, nuzzling his chest as he sprawled her out over him. He set at rubbing her back, tickling his claws gently up her spine as her breath fanned slowly over him. This is what he had wanted. His female pleasuring him then lazing around in his bed, cuddled in his arms. She was so soft and soothing against his tough, marred body. There was no way he'd ever be giving this up. Her weight shifted and she sighed, sounding utterly content. He had to smile at that, his arms curling tightly around her, pulling her up so he could lap at the side of her face. She laid there, accepting his attentions without thinking twice, used to the way he showed his appreciation of her, his deep affection. Delphia knew she had really, truly pleased him when he started to lick her face. Either that, or she was covered in blood. As the latter didn't apply, he had to be happy.

"Fenny?"

He snorted and stopped licking, his tongue still pressed against her cheek. Withdrawing, he butted the side of her head with his forehead, nosing her jaw. There was that damned name again. If he didn't tell her soon that it wasn't suitable for him and that he just didn't _like_ it, she wasn't going to stop. As he opened his mouth to inform her that she absolutely had to cease calling him that, she shifted again and started toying with the hair on his chest, stroking her fingers up and down his abdomen. He froze, his breathing slowing as he watched her, nearly panting at her touch.

Whining, he shoved the idiot idiom she had called him by out of his mind and focused on her fingers. "What, whelp?" he growled, his belly tensing, her nails scratching feathery marks on his flesh. He tossed his head, groaning.

"I'm hungry," she griped. If she noticed the reactions she was drawing out of him, she was ignoring them. She just liked touching him.

"Then get some food," he grunted, unable to decide whether he wanted to throw her off him or roll her over.

She frowned at him and dug her nails into his skin, clawing him, making him moan. "And where's your kitchen? Assuming you have one."

Scowling deeply, giving her a good, quailing glower, he wanted to smack her for that one. "Of course I have a kitchen." There really was a lot he had to teach her. Like the fact that pure-bloods weren't gods. He was one, he was _her_ god, damn it, but pure-bloods were naught but mortals. Prey, easy pickings when he was peckish. Running a hand down her back, not liking the look she was giving him, he preferred to soothe her and make her snuggle into him again. He wanted one of those blessed, satisfied smiles that went along with her eternally endeared gaze. Not this frown twisting her mouth, not the haughty, holier-than-thou attitude. That pissed him off and he didn't enjoy feeling that way around her. She was his relief, the body he cuddled and sank into for respite.

He wasn't going to elaborate. She snorted and poked his chest. "And where is this kitchen?"

"Are you always this annoying?" he grumbled, squeezing her tight as he saw the rage flicker in her eyes, tucking her head down into the crook of his neck. He was going to roll her over in a moment and really calm her down until she couldn't walk, if she kept this tirade up. Her head lifted and he felt himself cringe. She was pouting, her eyes wide and liquid, her chin trembling slightly. Damn it. Groaning, he clutched her to him, hugging her so he wouldn't have to look at her face.

Kissing her hair, he sighed. "Alright, I'll show you to the kitchen."

Delphia grinned into his shoulder. It didn't even take _effort_ to make him break. She lapped tentatively, tenderly, at this throat. He shivered beneath her and she nipped his flesh for good measure.

"Up," he growled, feeling his body beginning to react, letting her go so she could actually move. In a deft movement she hopped from the bed, going for her clothes. He watched her disapprovingly as she dressed, frowning a bit at the sight. Why did she need to bother? Her clothes would just be coming off again in a few minutes anyway. It wasn't like she had anything his pack hadn't seen before. They were used to nudity, and besides, he liked looking at her. She was so perfectly rounded and curved and it drove him absolutely insane to see a woman so damned breedable walking around before him or lazing in his bed. He loved how tempting she was, how that soft, voluptuous body fit so snugly against his as he made her wriggle and buck.

She turned to him as she slipped on her shirt, frowning slightly. "Are you getting up?" she wondered, pointedly ignoring the fact that he was starting to become engorged.

He grunted and sat up, staring at her. "Why bother getting dressed?" he rasped breathily, looking utterly enraptured. "Take your clothes off."

Completely aghast, she stared at him in shock. "I can't walk around naked! It isn't right."

"My den," he growled, "my rules. Take off your clothes. I want to see your body."

She shook her head, squirming. "I can't, Fenny. Please don't make me." She poked her belly a few times. "Maybe if I was thinner, I would. Besides, one of your pack wears clothes. Why can't I?"

Once again, his need to inform her about his loathing of that name was waylaid by more pressing issues to address. "You're fine," he said gruffly, not about to wax romantic as he really had no idea how.

"I know," she muttered with a shrug. "I'm normal. Healthy. That doesn't mean I can go around naked showing off my common body. Like everyone else, I should be covered up." She lifted her skirt and grinned slightly. "Mostly," she tacked on.

He whined, staring at her. "You shouldn't be covered at all. And Jeddie earned her right to wear robes because I spent a long time trying to beat it out of her. I had to let her have her way; she's as stubborn as you are."

The grin on Delphia's face grew and she let her skirt drop. "Exactly. So I'm wearing clothes."

Fenrir groaned and shook his head, realising he had walked into that one. He hadn't meant it that way. "Fine, wear your damned cloth. But when you're with me, you're not wearing anything, or I'll tear it off you."

"Fenny?"

He huffed in exasperation.

She twisted coyly, a blush darkening her cheeks even with a wicked pouting smile curling her lips. "Would you really do that?"

Sighing, he gave her a look. "Do what, whelp?"

Her voice was breathless when she spoke. "Tear my clothes off?"

Oh Merlin he could smell her. He growled deep in his chest, licking his lips as he took her in. She truly was an exercise in fortitude and self-control. He felt himself hardening as she squirmed before him, exuding arousal. A groan escaped him and he stood, able to smell her moist warmth; she writhed there, all innocent and sweet, turned on by the thought of him ripping her clothes off and taking her brutally. He stepped up to her, his chest heaving, eyes raking her face. Such a temptation. He couldn't get enough. His mouth descended on hers, crushing her lips in a forceful, hungry kiss. She moaned and moved into him, her arms circling his neck.

"Get in bed," he growled, raking his nails down her sides.

She whined and shook her head. "Let me eat first," she murmured, breaking away from him reluctantly. "I'm hungry, Fenny," she added on a sigh, leaning back up to him for more. He wasn't about to chastise her for calling him that (how many times now?), not when she was gasping and whimpering into his mouth, her tongue pressing insistently against his. Snarling viciously, he clutched her arse and lifted her up, slamming her against a wall. He could feel her body shudder from the impact. She cried out in surprise; he bit her lip, gazing intently at her as he dropped her down on him and thrust up. His teeth left her when he tipped his head back with a gasp, sheathing himself within her. Then he was howling, utterly rapt in her, having completely lost control.

Fenrir felt like collapsing when he finished inside Delphia, pulling back with a slight stumble, barely able to catch his balance. He blinked a few times, gasping for air, just staring at the stunned, thoroughly ravished girl in front of him. Her knees gave out as she tried to take a step and he chuckled lowly, catching her, helping her stand. It felt like a case of the blind leading the blind to him. He couldn't stand himself, so how was he supposed to help her? But with her leaning against him like that, looking so dazed and satisfied, smiling adoringly at him, what else was he supposed to do? He bent over and kissed the side of her face, inhaling deeply as he did so. A rumble of contentment sounded in his chest.

"Can I eat now?" Delphia gasped out, gazing up at him.

Fenrir snorted with mirth, chucking her chin fondly. "Of course, little one." He kissed her red, damp lips. He tasted her blood; he shivered. "Let's go eat."

Practically clutching onto one another, having to use each other for support, Fenrir and Delphia managed to stumble down to the kitchen. He led her through the halls, taking her to the back of the house. By then strength had returned to his limbs and he could walk fairly normally. His mate, however, was having a more difficult time, her legs still weak. He liked watching her try to move, knowing he had been the one to cause this. Grinning, watching her enter the kitchen (her steps slow and shaky), he leaned back against a wall, crossing his arms. Merlin she was adorable when freshly fucked. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her back to his room. But then she'd whine because she was hungry and give him those doe eyes. He really couldn't say no to her then; he'd grumble, he wouldn't like giving in, but he would.

Delphia went over to the old, broken Muggle fridge, curious, and tentatively opened it. There wasn't much inside. Mostly everything that had been stored there was eaten. The space inside the fridge was dark, the little that was in there shadowed and unrecognisable. She didn't want to reach into the space, only slightly cooler than the ambient air, and find something "interesting". Knowing Fenrir, there would probably be plenty of interesting things within. She sniffed the air on compulsion; nothing smelled bad but nothing was good, either.

"This is awful," she muttered to herself, shutting the fridge before looking haplessly about the kitchen. There was splintered wood scattered around on the gritty, dirty floor. A table sat in the middle of the room, worn, burnt, and well-scarred. What had most likely been matching chairs at some point encircled it, though there were only five. Her gaze swept the ground once again and she realised she was probably looking at the other chair, the last of a sextet, only it was in unrecognisable pieces. Her shoulders sagged. She couldn't eat anything out of here. She could barely stand to walk around the kitchen, let alone eat from it.

Turning her head slowly to Fenrir, she gave him a weak smile and a shrug. "I'm not feeling all that hungry any longer."

He quirked a brow and snorted, shaking his head. It was plain to see that she was horrified by the prospect of eating in his den. He wanted to laugh at her and call her puerile, snap that she was a well-bred bitch with one purpose in life, snarl that her pampered existence ended once she had mated with him. Instead he went over to her and glowered down into her face, grasping her chin to hold their gaze.

"Sniff the air," he rasped, not sounding as angry as he had perhaps wanted to, and glad for it. He loathed being angry with her. She just wasn't as much fun when they were at odds.

She sighed and did as he requested. Honestly she knew it had truly been a demand, but she didn't want to think of it that way, instead pretending that she had some sort of choice, freely choosing to acknowledge her baser side. The smell of dirt washed over her; she took another deep breath through her nose. Crushed grass, dead and drying, tracked through the kitchen that day. There was mud, earthy and heavy in her senses, just under the sweetness of fresh, green decay. All around was the scent of bodies, not unpleasant, almost reassuring. And through it all, the smell of the naked man standing before her, grasping her face so she was forced to stare into his narrowed, light brown eyes. She could smell her own sweat on him; catch the slightest hint, a near suggestion of their union over his flesh.

"What am I supposed to be smelling?" she wondered after picking through every smell she could, wondering what this exercise was about.

He snorted dog-like and cast his eyes to the ceiling, dropping her chin. Delphia rolled her jaw around a bit, rubbing the side of her face.

"Do you smell rot?" he challenged, touching her cheek with a crooked finger, caressing her even as he gently tossed her head to the side.

Delphia thought for a little while, her brow furrowing progressively as she went back through the smells she had sorted in her mind. Other than the grass, and that was actually a somewhat nice smell, there was nothing rotting, nothing truly amiss. Oh, the kitchen was a disgusting, filth encrusted mess like his bedroom, but there was nothing really wrong with it.

"No," she finally stated. "Other than the dirt and filth, it smells rather . . . clean, I suppose," she allowed, trying to sound supportive even as her voice trailed off in a grumble.

"The food here gets eaten too quickly for anything to go bad," he informed her rather sharply, giving her a critical look-over. "Now are you going to eat something?"

Shrugging and shifting her weight, standing there a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Delphia eventually shook her head. "No," she stated meekly, wincing and biting her tongue at her submissive tone. Her nostrils flared and she drew herself up, shrugging again, this time in a much more aloof way. "I'll eat later," she informed Fenrir calmly. "I'm fine for now."

He didn't believe her. After all her complaining about being hungry, she said she didn't want to eat? The problem was clear and it irked him. If she so loathed being outside her perfectly tended manse, she really should have chosen a better mate. She had to get used to the idea that life wasn't the spoiled, coddled experience she had been born into. It was rough, dirty, bloody and mean but that didn't mean it would kill her. He'd make sure of that. For now, he had to try and get her used to the idea that a little dirt on the floor didn't mean the food was tainted or that he lived in squalor. He had a home for Merlin's sake, a real den; he even had a bed for her. While it wasn't nearly as comfortable as her own, it also wasn't the floors she seemed to hate.

They stood there for a time, looking at one another. It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. In some ways, it was as intimate as they had been before stumbling down the staircase to the kitchen. Fenrir wanted to drag her back to his room but he knew it would be pointless. He doubted he could have her yet, still needing time to rest and relax. After all, he had to ruefully admit to himself, he was beginning to get old (no matter how much of a boy Delphia made him feel sometimes) and he wasn't a machine; though he _was_ an animal, and that had to count for something. Besides, she smelled normal; her belly was full of his seed and she didn't look like she was about to force him onto the table and savage him mercilessly. Though the thought did perk his interest somewhat. He could try and get her into such a state later; it would be thoroughly amusing to see her go wild without caring who was around and that it was in such a public spot. Not to mention he knew he'd be completely satisfied by her. She was so good at that.

A smile crept across his face. Reaching out, Fenrir ran his fingertips down Delphia's cheek, relishing the smoothness of her flesh. His thumb brushed her lips and his gentle, mindless efforts were rewarded with a tender kiss against his thumb, then the palm of his hand. Her eyes didn't leave his as she smiled, feeling him draw her into his chest. His arms settled about her body and his chin rested on top of her head. He huffed a contented sigh, snuggling her against him, looking out past her. Delphia's arms drifted around his waist and he smiled as she settled against him, squirming into a more comfortable position. Then she exhaled breathily, her eyes drifting shut.

Ducking his face down, nuzzling the side of her head, he nosed the silky hair at her temple. His mouth brushed against her ear and he took a moment to relish her slight shiver.

"Do you know how to swim?"

His rasp came over her slowly, filtering through the comfortable haze about them. Delphia blinked a few times in confusion before tipping her head to look at him. Confusion etched her face and she gave him a little frown.

"What?" she murmured, barely able to process his odd question, wondering if she hadn't heard him wrong.

He moved a hand and cupped her cheek, just enjoying himself and the freedom he had to explore her body, to learn every inch of her as he liked.

"Do you know how to swim, whelp?" he repeated, sounding somewhat humoured.

Taken aback, realising she had indeed heard him correctly, she gave him a nod. "Yeah. A little. Why?"

He hushed her with his thumb on her lips once more. Saying nothing he withdrew and took her hand. She didn't resist as he led her from the kitchen and out of the house towards the woods, completely bemused.


	36. Chapter XXXV: Swimming

Thanks for the reviews guys :) Hope you enjoy the next chapter. There's still so much story to be written and only a few more chapters more that are done :( Working on a new Durmstrang fic, but that one's more of something I'm dabbling at for the hell of it; I'm working more on my star wars... maybe I'll get back to this one soon, heh ^_^ Please r&r!

BL

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Chapter XXXV: Swimming

The water was beautiful. It babbled softly, slipping and tumbling over rocks, pooling into a broad, serene stream with grassy banks and a sandy floor. Warm ripples lapped at Delphia's feet with every one of Fenrir's movements. He was tossing and turning, paddling back and forth, dunking under the surface every so often. She was surprised at how much he enjoyed himself; he would float for a few minutes before suddenly twisting and splashing about. She swore he was acting like a delighted child. It must have been nice, she realised suddenly, to gleam so much joy from something so simple. She smiled over at him as his head bobbed abruptly over the surface, his matted, tangled hair dripping, wisps clinging to his face. He stared at her, a smirk turning his mouth, before clawing the hair off his cheeks, returning it to the soaked mass behind his head. Moving swiftly, gliding through the water, Fenrir went over to Delphia, placing his hands on either side of her on the bank. His eyes dragged up her legs, taking his time to get to her face before giving her a good stare.

"Aren't you coming in?" he wondered, his voice a bark of delight and wicked challenge.

Delphia shrugged and kicked her feet slowly in the water, relishing the smooth caress of the tiny currents she created. He grabbed a foot and tugged, grinning fiendishly at her startled cry, her struggles to stay on the dry shore.

"In the water, whelp," he barked playfully, laughing at her feeble attempts to slap his hands away as he clawed at her clothing. She was putting up some resistance, shoving his arms from her every time he tried to yank off her shirt. It confused him even as he continued to attack her clothes, attempting to find an in, needing to see her flesh.

"No, Fenrir," she gasped, drawing away and shaking her head as he went for her again, "I'm fine; I don't want to go in the water."

His hands stilled then rested gently on her thighs. Pulling back slightly, his eyes raked her face, a frown settling on his mouth.

"Why? The water's nice," he rasped, utterly bewildered.

Her lips tightened and she looked away, her gaze far-off. Shoulders drooping she then gave him a listless shrug. Part of her wanted to. She wanted to be some wild, free creature. No rules, no presumptions, no propriety; she _could_ take off her clothes and jump in the water, it would be _fine _to run around naked and never have another real responsibility outside the pack; and it would be _accepted_ that she was Fenrir's mate, rather than all this sneaking around and lying. She wasn't some werewolf like Fenrir, however, and she never realised how true his rhetoric was. He really was free. He could jump in the stream any time he wished without worrying about anyone seeing. For if someone did see, they'd probably join him and no one would think anything of it. No one, but no one, told him what to do. He made his own rules, did whatever he wanted when he liked. If his pack wasn't so structured, she'd hazard a thought at him being quite the anarchist. And it wasn't fair; she wanted that freedom but feared too much the stigma of becoming like him. Werewolves were not a part of polite society and it would give her family such a bad name. She felt like she had two lives that were completely incongruous, but that she could give neither of them up.

Fenrir grunted for her attention and touched her face with wet fingers, tepid water cooling down her cheek. Blinking, Delphia turned her head to him and smiled faintly, the mixture of worry and curiosity on his face blending to give him the age she knew he had, but never saw.

"Little one?"

She sighed and gave another half-shrug. "I . . . It's not right, Fenrir. What if someone sees? I can't go around naked; you know that."

He huffed, narrowing his eyes at her. "If someone sees, then it's nothing they haven't seen before. And no one will see," he tacked on, lying a bit because it seemed right, because it would comfort her. For all he knew, half his pack could be in the woods. Hell, he wouldn't put it past them to be hiding in the trees, watching, to catch glimpse of their Alpha pair.

"Fenrir," she finally said, looking him in the eye, "I'm not like you. I was raised differently."

He cast his eyes upward and shook his head, returning his gaze to her a moment later. Damn it her eyes were green. Suddenly he wanted to lick her. Leaning forward, he nuzzled her cheek, inhaling her scent. It was so familiar now, the smell of comfort and love and adoration. There was no better smell in the world. He knew she tasted just as good too. Gently he ran his tongue up the side of her face, lapping at her a few times. Her head moved slightly and he realised she was moving into him, a little contented murmur escaping her.

Withdrawing slightly, he pressed his mouth to hers, watching as her eyes fluttered shut, feeling her soft sigh against his lips. He could smell her opening up to him, a twinge of lust flowing from her, too sweet to be pure base instinct.

"I was raised the same as you," he muttered, pulling back. He licked his lips. Oh Merlin she was so bloody sweet. He bent forward for another kiss, being greedily accepted. Her arms wound around his neck and he found himself needing her, hungry for her. He wanted to devour every bit of her and completely lose his mind within her body.

"No you weren't," she whispered back, it being her turn to break the kiss.

He chuckled at that. "I was still raised in the same world, little one." He touched her hair, tangling his fingers in the cascade of shimmering brown. "I just learned who and what I really am, how to let go." He eyed her mouth. Merlin . . . her lips were too pouty and soft. Struggling with himself, he forced the urge down. He could have what he wanted in a moment. He still needed to get her stupid clothing off.

"Well, my mother would kill me if she found out I was naked outside."

"She isn't here," he growled back, his eyes turning to slits. There was no chance Preia could ever find them here; why did Delphia care so much?

"She still raised me. I'm not a werewolf, Fenrir. I have to wear clothes."

He smiled slightly. "Because you're outside?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "That's part of it, yes."

A grin slowly crept on his face. He leaned into her once again, his mouth pressing against her ear.

"Do you remember our first time?"

Delphia froze as heat shot through her. She trembled and stared at the side of his head, fighting the moan as his lips worked over her earlobe.

"Which one?" she croaked out, finding herself gasping for air. His hand inched up her thigh and started stroking along the flare of her hip. She squirmed, confused as to why she was panting and shaking when he was doing nearly nothing.

He continued to grin, feeling her reaction, hearing her laboured breathing. "Both," he conceded. "You didn't seem too hung up on propriety either time. Why," he continued, sounding mock-scandalised, "we were even _outside_."

Whining and shaking her head, Delphia fought the roiling within her as his lips found her neck.

"It's different now," she choked out, feeling her muscles tense. She ached to draw him to her, to cling to his body as he made love to her in that way she knew only he could.

"No it isn't," he grumbled, biting her gently, relishing her gasping cry. "You were so good," he breathed, eyes glinting over her shoulder. If he couldn't get her to willingly strip outside, he'd get her to such a point that she wouldn't even think about it.

"So I'm not now?" she somehow shot out, pain twisting her belly.

He hummed contentedly and shut his eyes, licking the blossoming stain of blood above her shoulder. Her tension ebbed and she all but sank into his arms.

"You didn't even feel it, did you?" he went on, pulling her in closer so their bodies were flush. His voice became thick with lust. "I didn't even see you react with pain, you wanted me so badly." Biting her ear, all he got was a moan. No, she didn't seem to register pain when he drove her to such limits.

"I still want you," she gasped, clawing at his back as she kissed and nipped his shoulder.

"I know, baby," he returned gruffly, reaching for her shirt. He lifted himself up slightly as he touched the cloth and all she did was moan in his ear, swirling her tongue down to his neck. He shuddered, his body clenching. Gently he pulled the shirt up and over her head; she lifted her arms so he could take it off, her eyes hazy and drooping with absolute hunger as she gazed up at him. Lowering himself back down, tossing her shirt aside, he pulled her to him again, groaning at the feel of her bare breasts against his chest.

"I'm naked," she sighed into his throat, making him rumble with laughter.

"So you are."

"You tricked me."

He continued to laugh. "That I did."

She was silent for a moment, worrying her lip. Fenrir could feel and smell the struggle within her, wondering if perhaps she was too recessed in wizarding ways to accept this. Would she pull away suddenly and go running off? Was she fighting with herself to accept this and stay here with him? Or was she angry that he had tricked her?

He realised a moment later as she sighed with resignation and wiggled her hips, that he had been completely wrong on all counts. She slid her skirt down and then looked up at him. His eyes lit up and he quickly helped her, pulling her skirt off her legs, taking a moment to study them with a happy sigh. He tossed the skirt around where he had thrown her shirt. Then he spread her legs and settled himself between her thighs, kissing her eagerly. She hadn't been struggling with his actions, he though with giddy clarity, but with herself, to find her resolve.

His chest ached. He clutched her to him, crawling up on the bank, spreading her out in the grasses and moss. His whole body shook, his arms trembling as he held himself up above her. She pulled him down for another kiss, her fingers tangling in his messy hair. Her hips undulated; he filled her swiftly, his mouth breaking from hers. His delighted, gut-wrenching howl echoed through the trees as he set about feverishly pleasuring his mate.

"Want to go in the water now?"

Delphia lazily lifted her eyes to Fenrir, stretching contentedly and settling more comfortably against him before answering. He smiled, trailing his fingers up and down her arm, enjoying the feel of her warm, limp body snuggled into his. Kissing her forehead, still in a daze, he gave her a look as she let out a breathy sigh.

"Mm," she finally groaned, stretching again, "oh Fenny, you're so . . .," she let out a little moan.

"Good?" he prompted, flashing her a pointy-toothed, utterly egotistical grin. "Amazing? Wonderful? Perfect? God?"

Giggling at that, she prodded him in the chest. "How about alright? Fine? Decent?"

He snorted and rolled onto his back, tucking a hand behind his head. "I'd settle for perfect."

She sighed as she sat up and shook out her hair. Was every man impossible, or was it just him? Standing slowly, Delphia went to the waters edge and gingerly slipped in. Well, she was already nude, had just had sex outside, so really, skinny-dipping was the least of her sins now.

Fenrir watched as she got up, languorously examining her arse and legs as they flexed with movement, admiring her as she crouched and slid into the water. He had been damned, _damned_ lucky to have got her. She was a gift; a randy, ever-ready, voluptuous gift from the moon herself, for his decades of unwavering service. It was about bloody time he got something this good in his life. Besides, he was more than worthy. His eyes trailed her as she moved in the water, making a gentle wake as she walked slowly, adjusting to the temperature. He couldn't tell if it was a flush from their bout that had made her tinged with pink, or if she was starting to get sunburned. It wasn't a worry for him; his skin was too tough and tanned. He could be outside in the sun for hours and not think twice. Seeing Delphia now though made him wonder if her pale, aristocrat skin could take it.

She turned slightly and he sighed, examining her, drinking in the sight as greedily as he could. He knew, right then and forever, that young flesh was the most delicious thing set on the earth. It was pure pleasure to just stare at her, to study every curve and nuance of her body. Who needed a woman who thought she knew what she was doing? He had a wriggling, bucking nymph who loved to positively devour him as often as she possibly could.

"Are you coming in?"

He blinked and just stared at her; or, more of, her chest. A smile flickered on his features and he forced his eyes up to hers. Her brows arched as she smirked knowingly.

"Yeah," he rasped, "I'm coming." Hefting himself up with a soft growl of protest to his muscles, he rolled his shoulders and walked towards her. He couldn't remember a time when he so thoroughly ached and it felt so good. Jumping into the water, he sank down to his knees and groaned, tipping his head back blissfully. He let the water lap around him, soothe his sore muscles. Whatever he had done to her, he had definitely done something right. Merlin his muscles hurt. He felt a current of water course past him and he slitted his eyes over, seeing Delphia approach him. His eyes drifted over her body, wishing that she would never get dressed again.

"You alright?" she wondered, moving into him, kneeling to press her body against his. He settled his arms around her and kissed the side of her face. Her skin was satiny against his lips; silky wisps of her hair tickled his cheek. He inhaled and shuddered. No one should ever smell this desirable.

"I'm fine," he muttered, furrowing his brow slightly. "Why, whelp?" He knew he hurt, but it wasn't really painful and it couldn't have been obvious.

She shrugged and idly played with the hair on his chest. "You winced when you got up."

Had he? He snorted disbelievingly and kissed her again. "I tired myself out on you," he responded, grinning at her frown. "That's all."

"Oh," she breathed, "so _I_ didn't tire you out? I mean, I could go for more," she continued coyly, reaching between his legs to fondle him.

He hissed and withdrew slightly, shaking his head. "Too soon, whelp."

"We rested awhile," she returned stubbornly, establishing her dominance. "And if your being tired has nothing to do with me, then you could just go easier this time and not over-exert yourself." She reached for him again and felt his hand clamp over hers.

"Alright," he growled, "you exhaust me. I just want to relax, float in the water, watch you swim and stare at your chest for the next hour or so."

A smile curled her mouth and Delphia found herself laughing. "You could stare at me for an _hour_?"

He let go of her hand and cupped her breasts, squeezing and kneading gently. "Longer," he grumbled, liking the way she squirmed and moaned from his touch.

"Fenny," she breathed, staring wide-eyed at him as she panted, writhing when he began rolling her nipples between his fingers, "we're supposed to be swimming."

"You swim," he grumbled, "I'll watch."

"You're doing more," she gasped for air, trembling, "than watching."

He grinned slowly, wickedly at her before dropping his hands. Taking in a deep inhalation of relief, thinking she could perhaps manage to calm herself, she realised as his hands cupped her arse and lifted her up that she should have _known_ that grin. It was the portend of something delightful, something that would have her screaming his name. She shivered eagerly in anticipation.

Picking her up in the water was too easy and he hugged her hips to his abdomen, brushing his lips over a hard nipple. She let out a little moan; that wasn't enough for him. Tenderly he drew his tongue around the peak of her breast, receiving a breathy groan for his efforts. He kissed her nipple then took it in his mouth, suckling hungrily, her hips surging against his ribs. She clawed at his hair, crying out as she rocked gently in his arms, forgetting once again where they were and what they were doing. Shuddering she fell into him, clutching his head against her, never wanting him to let up.

It was nearing dusk and both Fenrir and Delphia were actually swimming. He was splashing around in the water like a boy again and she was settling into just soaking, still trying to regain her composure and balance. She watched him swim with soft, tired eyes, a smile playing on her lips. Somehow he seemed revitalised, absolutely bounding with energy. He was good to look at, too. Shamelessly she stared at him, examining his body, feeling her belly curling at the sight. His skin gleamed in the slowly fading light, water dribbling off him, tracing his toned musculature. She sighed at the sight of his muscles flexing, trembled as he stood, her eyes dropping down the plain of his belly. The water just barely covered him in some mockery of decency. There was nothing decent about him and she found herself yearning to actually see what was down there. Oh, she already knew, but she felt a naughty, dirty thrill from the thought of wanting to look. Damn being proper, she wouldn't avert her eyes or be good. If he only stepped closer to her, she could see her favourite part of him; if he came even closer than that, she could touch him, even take him in her mouth. An urge welled up inside her until all she wanted was to cling to him, feel his hands against her back as he held her, his mouth on hers. She needed him to seize her hips in his hands and savage her, pounding her like he had all day, even bend her over the edge of the stream like earlier. Delphia let out a little panting whine, something she could barely hear. Yet Fenrir's eyes lit up and he did move closer, sniffing the air gently. A rumble started in his chest and he stood before her, leaning over to get another good sniff.

"What are you thinking?" he wondered lowly, his rasp the most arousing thing she had ever heard. She whined again and shook her head. "You're thinking, whelp. I can smell your need. You're thinking of me, aren't you?"

"How egotistical of you to assume I'm thinking of you," she sneered with a quick glower before staring down into the water, unable to summon up anymore rancour. Instead it sounded like the pathetic rebuke it was. He laughed softly at her, shaking his head. She glanced up into his face, his gleaming too-light brown eyes, studying the flecks of gold highlighting them. Her chest clenched; her stomach went soft even as her muscles contracted. Of course she was thinking of him; she couldn't _stop_ thinking of him. Something drove her to move towards him, to be cuddled in his arms, protected from the world. Perhaps it was the inordinately smug, self-satisfied look on his face, or the sense of utter pride and dominance radiating from him. He was obviously still feeling the after-effects of their last bout, giving her a sense of relief. She wasn't the only one so thoroughly affected. But whereas after she became clingy and in need of comfort, he became possessive and overly protective. It was so different, but it fit so perfectly.

Without warning he leaned over and swept her into a belly-searing kiss. She clung to him, as she had wanted, her eyes drifting shut in ecstasy. Pressing her against the edge of the stream, he tasted her delighted cry as he had her again, hovering possessively over her, his hands on the riverbank. He couldn't get enough, she couldn't get enough; he didn't even know by now how many times he'd had her today. Nor did he care; all he knew was that his mate was moving in vigorous tandem with him as she clawed eagerly at his back, moaning for more. Her mouth was voracious; her slippery, wet body snug against his. She fit perfectly against him, sealed just right around him on every plunge.

Her mouth broke from his with obvious effort and she stared up at him as they bucked and arched together.

"You're perfect," she whispered, gasping delightedly with every thrust within her.

He panted then grinned at her, his hips jerking as he kissed her once more.


	37. Chapter XXXVI: Alpha Female

_Haven't gone back over it or anything, so if there are mistakes or imperfections, sorry. I re-re-re-re-edit endlessly, but I just wanted to get this posted. I could probably rewrite half of it, but I don't have time (sorry excuse, I know; I haven't read this chapter in a looong time). I have kinda wanted to continue writing this actively, simply because the story is so much fun and will only get more dynamic/dramatic... Well, here's hoping. My life is pretty full and hectic!_

_Enjoy and please review. I love reading your responses and opinions and critiques._

_BL_

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Chapter XXXVI: Alpha Female

When Delphia was becoming pruny and was completely limp in Fenrir's arms, unable to do anything but rest her head on his shoulder and moan softly, he decided it was time to get out of the water. It was darkening swiftly outside now and there were things to do. He hadn't seen his pack all day and while it was perfectly understandable _why_, he still had responsibilities. For example, feeding his pack. There was little food in the house earlier in the day, and now once everyone had been up, there was probably next-to-nothing.

On cue, Delphia yawned and struggled to toss her head, staring exhaustedly into Fenrir's neck.

"Fenny?"

He was never going to stop her from calling him that, was he? Sighing resignedly, he shifted her in his arms and somehow managed to crawl out of the water. She was still securely hugged to him, and he gave himself a minute's rest by sprawling out in the grass beside the river, resting her atop him. He could work on actually getting to his feet in a moment.

"What, little one?" he barked softly, rolling over quickly onto his knees, still holding her. He panted a moment.

"I'm hungry."

His shoulders sagged. He blew out a little sigh. "Alright. We'll get some food."

She thought for a moment. "Where?"

He groaned and shut his eyes. He was too tired for some bloody twenty questions, let alone with the whelp that had completely exhausted him. While he had always been thankful – more than thankful, grateful – that she was eternally eager for him, he had never actually spent a full twenty-four hours with her. Now he was wondering if he could handle satisfying her _and_ handling his pack. Dealing with his Elders and a couple dozen children and teenagers wasn't half as soul-sucking, bone-wearying as she was.

Her voice piped up again, full of a yawn and sympathy. "Are you tired, Fenny?"

Damn it he wanted to hit her. Tired? He felt like keeling over and sleeping for the next week. And there was that stupid name _again_. Struggling, he got up to his feet uneasily, his muscles screaming and trembling their protest. Why the hell was he carrying her? He blinked, completely confused, wondering why he was adding this extra weight. It was enough trouble dragging his own sorry arse to his den, but to take hers as well?

She nuzzled his neck and let out a satisfied sigh, then a loud yawn. Squirming, she snuggled in closer to him, fighting to drape a listless arm over his shoulder. His head hung even as he cradled her tighter. That was why he was carrying her.

"Why aren't you talking?"

His eye twitched and he gritted his teeth. "Why are you asking so many bloody questions?"

Frowning into his skin, she shook her head, the expenditure of energy with just that making her dizzy. "Are you mad at me?"

Oh Merlin. He shut his eyes hard and willed himself some semblance of vigour. There was no chance he would be running anywhere anytime soon, but he could probably take a few steps without falling flat on his face. It wasn't her fault, after all, that he was so drained. He had done that to himself, to both of them. She couldn't even walk, she couldn't _move_, so what could he truly expect of her?That realisation boosted his ego, gave him just enough to step forward. He fought with himself and took another step. Biting his tongue gently, Fenrir forced a steady pace, moving carefully, purposefully through the wood.

As they came out of the trees, Fenrir's legs complete jelly and begging him for even just a few seconds' rest, Delphia squirmed in his arms and lifted her head slowly. He looked at her tiredly and she smiled, studying his face.

"I can walk now," she told him softly, lying so he'd feel better. He looked completely beat.

"Are you sure?" he wondered gruffly.

She nodded a bit, thinking to herself. "Yes," she finally said.

He shrugged and gently let her down, helping her stay upright as her balance wavered. "You're sure?" he added teasingly, some humour colouring his voice.

She frowned at him but her eyes were sparkling. "Yes."

He quirked a brow at her and studied her body. A smile started forming on his face and he fought desperately to hide it, to force it away. Her brow furrowed at his inordinately pleased expression and she gave him a look.

"What?" she wondered.

"Nothing," he rasped, choking on his laughter. He didn't want to tell her. He really, truly did _not_ want to tell her.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Delphia scowled deeply. "Fenrir, tell me."

"It's nothing," he coughed out, having to cough a few more times to try and rid himself of his laughter.

Her hands dropped to her hips, where they rested as she leaned forward in challenge. "Damn it Fenrir. What's got into you?"

His eyes positively danced as he took in her nude body. "Nothing, whelp. Really. Now c'mon. The pack's probably wondering where we are. They haven't seen me all day."

She blushed slightly at that, the smell more obvious in the darkness than the colouring of her skin. "No," she whispered, twisting coyly before him, "they haven't."

He grinned and took her hand, leading her gently to the back door. Reaching for the knob, he turned it and pulled the door open, the rusty screech from the hinges causing them both to wince. Gesturing Delphia forward, he stepped in behind her and smirked a silent victory for himself, his eyes dropping to her arse and hips. He sighed wistfully, softly, so she could barely hear him. There were few better sights in the world, he knew that much. Her bent over or spread out on her back were a couple of his other favourites.

Leaning over, Fenrir dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. Delphia turned her head and smiled faintly at him, kissing his scratchy cheek in return. His chest clenched; he pressed his lips to hers and felt her smile as she kissed him back. Breaking away from her, he placed a hand on her lower back and guided her through the halls towards the living room. Before they got there, the door a couple metres off, Delphia stretched and turned to him.

"Fenny?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. "_Darling?_"

She quirked a brow. That had sounded more insulting than his usual idiom for her. "What are we doing tonight, anyway?"

Snorting, he stared down at her, his eyes opened to slits. "Hunting. Getting food. You do wish to kill someone, don't you?"

She shrugged meekly at that. "I'm a bit tired from you," she admitted, sucking on her lower lip but not tearing her eyes from his.

He had to smile at that, and he did. "You can stay home if you like. I can have something brought back for you."

"Really?" she wondered, shifting her weight uneasily. "I . . . I don't want to disappoint you. I can," she sighed, "I can still kill, if you want me to."

He let out a bark of laughter. "Disappoint me? Delphia, the Sonders might be a bit crazy, but insane you are not. How in ruddy hell would you disappoint me?"

Shrugging again, she scuffed her bare feet on the floor. "Because I'm not killing with you," she breathed softly, sounding almost afraid.

"Baby," Fenrir sighed, pulling her into him. "You don't have to learn anything here. Just satisfy me and you don't have to lift a finger." He hesitated before tentatively tacking on, "I'm not your mother; you can't disappoint me. Ever."

The look she gave him tore at his heart and he chucked her chin. "Don't worry about a thing. Just satisfy me," he taunted adoringly before pressing her back into his body.

She giggled from his chest. "I doubt I could even do that." Humming contentedly, she curled her arms around his torso and pulled herself in closer. She loved the feel of his body against hers, his flesh so taught and firm against her breasts and belly. Her head rested gently on his chest as his hands settled to her lower back, rubbing tenderly, just stroking her as he starting growling something akin to a purr from the back of his throat.

"Fenny," she murmured, absolutely wrapped up in him, "I," she broke off suddenly, her eyes going wide. She could feel the hair on his chest and stomach tickling her skin. Normally she liked the feel, loved being cuddled to him, but it abruptly felt wrong. "I'm naked!" she squealed, becoming awash in anger and horror. "Damn it Fenrir!" she cried, "Someone's going to see me!"

He rolled his eyes. "Well, they certainly _heard_ you."

"_Fenny!_" she wailed pitifully, trying to pull away from him as he held on tight.

"Stop struggling," he barked, frowning slightly. "You haven't cared all day. You didn't even notice until now."

"But . . . but I was too tired to notice," she whined, still struggling against him.

Huffing in anger, he let go and watched her stumble. "Fine. But I'm not going back outside. You did bring something else to wear, didn't you?" He couldn't imagine someone who seemed so obsessed with being clean having only one set of clothes.

Catching her balance with a glower, Delphia nodded. "Yeah; in my knapsack. It's in your room."

He just stood there, a brow slowly arching. She didn't seem to be moving. Did she actually expect him to go grab it for her? "You know where my room is," he growled. "Go get dressed."

Her mouth opened to protest. Then she shut it, gave him another good glower, her hands balling into fists at her sides, and bounded off for the staircase. A little smile curled his lips as he watched her run, catching a good, long view of her body as she mounted the stairs to the second floor. She aggravated the hell out of him, that was for sure, but if he couldn't put up with that, then he was an idiot. There was nothing in his experience that lead credence to the thought of being anything near a fool, so he figured she was just a normal chit of a girl and that she'd grow out of it. Besides, he really enjoyed her body; he'd put up with near anything to have her wet and willing. So far, he thought he was doing fairly well.

Hearing the door to his room shut, a bit louder than it should have been (slamming doors, Delphia? How very pure-blood), Fenrir went into the living room where his pack waited, smirking and obviously trying not to laugh. A few of them coughed, rubbing their faces to hide their smiles. He collapsed in his usual chair, barely missing the pup that scrambled out of the Alpha's perch before he landed his ass in it and let out a heavy groan. Now that he was sitting, the odds on him lifting his body back into something resembling a standing position were slim, at best. There was no way he was leaving to go hunting tonight. Gazing out at the grouping of naked bodies, all faces expectant and turned to his, he just arched his brows.

"What?" he rasped, attempting to shake out his messy hair. He wanted to go to his room, grab Delphia, collapse in bed and sleep with her curled up against him.

"Are we hunting?" Aneya wondered, relaxing in her spot on the couch. A spark flashed in her eyes as the side of her mouth twitched. "Or is our poor Alpha too tired from his young mate?"

He glowered at her, ignoring the chuckles from around the room. "You've already expressed your disproval over my choice of taking a Feral, my Beta."

Her eyes widened and she shook her head quickly. Cold fear flooded her veins. "No, no, Alpha. You misunderstood me."

Scowling now, he snorted in anger. "Whether it's a joke to you or not, Aneya, she's my mate. Respect her, or I'll beat you."

"Alpha, please," she whined, holding up her hands for mercy. "I was merely teasing; we're all happy that you're mating."

He was too drained to beat her; he doubted he could even land one good hit. Still, the threat carried weight. He had never been too tired for anything before so how could they suspect and exploit such a thing now? He had also never had a nymph for a lover which meant, luckily, there was no precedent for such a situation. They'd never know, until he collapsed and started snoring on the floor. Shite, he was too old for this. Glancing around, he noticed that nearly everyone had been nodding. He sneered, still scowling, and looked away from them all. He was obviously irritable; he could admit that to himself. It didn't mean he could do anything about it and he wasn't going to admit to any lack of control before the entire gathering. Perhaps with a few of his favoured younglings who worried about their Alpha as a father, wondering why he was upset, or with his Elders. No one else.

His eyes lifted as he heard the soft padding of footsteps, bare feet on wood floor, and recognised the gait of his mate. She appeared in the room's threshold a moment later, catching his eye. A smile settled on her features. Relief blossomed in Fenrir for some reason – hadn't he been mad at her? He couldn't remember why. But he had been; or had he? Shrugging that off, he gestured to her, motioning for her to join him. It didn't matter. He wasn't angry with her any longer. If he had been at all. Merlin he needed sleep. At least he could gleam some repose from Delphia. Even when she was dressed it was a delight to watch her body move, especially since she was approaching him. No one said a word, some looked away, still unsure about the newcomer in their midst.

"Sit," he growled softly as a command, it coming out as a panting request. Lifting his arm up he made room for her when she hesitated. He studied her face and gave her a look. She wavered and then realised he meant for her to sit in his lap. Her still-pink face (he swore she had a sunburn) went a bit pinker but she turned gingerly and perched herself on his leg. His hand settled on her thigh and he used his arm to yank her back against his chest. Her head fell on his shoulder and lolled there, her face turned to his. He just continued to study his pack, thinking to himself, absentmindedly pulling Delphia more securely to his body. She kissed his cheek, completely ignoring everyone there, not caring that they could see. After all, she was wearing clothes.

"Why's she got clothes on?" one of the younger males asked from the floor, looking up at the girl who was supposed to be their Alpha female. She didn't look strong enough, didn't smell dominant. How was she supposed to lead them? If it wasn't for the smell of Fenrir on her flesh, the scent of their Alpha's ownership between her thighs, he wouldn't have thought her anything but a fresh meal.

Fenrir growled deep in his chest. "Why are you speaking without permission?" His eyes shot down to the boy. He frowned and gave the teen a fierce glower, along with the others he was grouped with. "Learn your place, or you'll get Aneya's beating, too."

The boy's eyes narrowed. "She's weak. If she didn't stink of your mating, Alpha, she'd be dinner."

Huffing in irritation, Fenrir felt Delphia's head lift before he could respond. She was studying the wiry teenager aloofly, as a minor curiosity. He could smell her anger, her struggle to suppress it. He doubted the others could; he was more in tune with her scents and moods than they could ever be. She fought to be uncaring, to not allow him to see her irritation or resentment at the boy's frank, crude reference to their union. Multiple unions.

"If you think Fenrir's beatings are bad, wait until I get my hands on you," she sneered, eyes glinting gleefully. "I have a _wand_."

The teen snorted. "Useless twig."

Fenrir fought the urge to wince, feeling Delphia tense. Sometimes he wished children didn't absorb everything one said.

"I can Crucio you," she snapped back, her fingers curling.

He frowned, shaking his head. "What's that?" he wondered, honestly not knowing.

Sighing, Fenrir spoke up. "It's a curse that will have you begging me to beat you instead. One more word out of you and you're not hunting tonight."

"But –"

"_I said one more word, damn it!_"

Even Delphia froze at the roar that issued from Fenrir, the room horrifically silent, all eyes wide and locked on him.

"Get to your room," he rumbled in a mutter, trying to calm down.

"Alpha," the boy whined, looking about ready to cry.

"Perhaps now you'll learn to shut your mouth when you're told," Delphia snapped, surreptiously searching out Fenrir's hand. She found his fingers and intertwined hers with his, squeezing, hoping that she hadn't been out of line for speaking for him. He squeezed back.

Narrowing his eyes at the Alpha pair, the teen snorted with anger and jumped up. Growling in his chest, he stormed from the room, leaving a wake of loathing behind him.

"Alpha," came Aneya's calm, too-consoling voice, "perhaps you were a bit harsh on him."

"No," Fenrir snapped. "I warned him and he spoke."

"He's a child."

"He's a man," he bit back. "He's killed, he's entertained himself with his victims; he has to learn to hold his tongue." The pack nodded as a sullen force. The lesson was for all of them, they knew. Someone had to be scapegoated and Loran had offered himself up.

Fenrir was too tired for this. His eyes drooped and he shook off his exhaustion, at least for the moment. "You're to go hunting tonight," he began, interrupted swiftly by Aneya.

"You? Not we?"

"My mate and I are staying home," he barked. "Do you have issue with _that_ as well?"

She blinked and sat utterly frozen. "No, Alpha. I was just looking for clarification."

Lip twitching, Fenrir studied the faces of his Elders. "Take the pack hunting," he said, forcing himself to be overly calm, "kill if you wish. Steal as much food as you can. We have nearly nothing and my mate is hungry."

The group of Elders nodded promptly, vigorously at that. They watched as Delphia shifted, moving in closer to their Alpha. His arms dropped around her as he nearly crooned to her, snuggling her against his naked body. They knew she was showing them she was his favoured, that acting against her was acting against him. As a single being the Elders stood and broke up the pack into groups, leaving the Alpha pair to themselves. They left the house in a steady stream, heading out into the night to kill and steal as they wished and needed.

When the room was empty, Delphia lifted herself up and turned so she could look at Fenrir. He was half-asleep already, slouching in the chair, his chin nearly to his chest.

"Fenny?"

He grunted, his body jerking a bit.

"You're tired, aren't you honey?"

He grunted again, but a smile touched his mouth this time.

"You didn't need to get so angry, you know."

His eyes finally lifted to hers and his smile widened. "Can I just keep grunting, or do I have to start answering at some point?"

Delphia put a hand over the side of her face and laughed softly. "You did just answer, Fenny."

Chin dropping back down, he just grunted in reply, making her laugh gently once more. Her hand rubbed his shoulder consolingly and his eyes shut, a rumble of pleasure welling up in his chest.

"Can we go to bed now?" she questioned, her voice breathy.

He sighed, lifting his chin to let it drop back down in a nod. Delphia slid from his lap and took his hands, helping him as he struggled to stand with her. She stepped into him, her arms settling around his ribs. Looking down at the top of her head in surprise, he just grinned then and held her to him.

"I'm falling in bed and sleeping," he informed her, finding his voice again.

"I know," she murmured. "I'm tired too. You wore me out today."

He wanted to laugh at her, or smack her. He wore _her_ out? Wasn't it him who just tore a strip out of his pack because he was irritable? And wasn't he irritable because she demanded too much of him? Merlin she had a funny way of seeing things. He wore her out _indeed._ It was her own fault her appetites were insatiable, not his. He just did his damndest to fulfill her and half-killed himself in the process. Then he felt her lips against his chest in a gentle kiss and his exasperation melted away.

"I'm not carrying you to bed," he grumbled. "You'll have to manage your own way up."

"Will you fetch my clothes tomorrow?" she wondered.

He set his jaw. Fetch, like her obedient puppy. She really had to learn to check her words better. He huffed with laughter. Hadn't he recently told himself that as well? Perhaps she meant it more in an obedient house-elf sort of way. He supposed she wasn't far off of the mark; he was a servant to her flesh. But _Merlin _he was tired. When he got her in bed, he was going to bury his face between her breasts, sprawl out on her and fall asleep.

"Let's go to bed," Delphia whispered, pulling from him to take his hand. She led his stumbling, worn out body up to his bedroom and opened the door for him. He tripped through to his bed and collapsed, barely summoning up the energy to watch her strip. But he didn't want to miss that. She stood with her back to him, almost completely nonchalant as she first took her shirt off and tossed it with his discarded, barely-used robe. Taking a moment to stretch and yawn, she then hooked her thumbs in her skirt and wiggled it off her hips, bending over to step out of it and pick it up. Fenrir groaned, unable to help himself, too weary to stop his reaction. Her slit was still swollen and moist from earlier; he could smell her, smell the remnants of his own spendings. He let out another groan as she straightened up slowly, her back arching, legs slightly spread. She was doing it on purpose, he knew, his belly clenching even as he wanted the torment to cease.

"Stop," he gasped from the bed, "whelp, damn it, stop it."

She chuckled darkly and stood upright, rolling her hips as she tossed her skirt with her shirt. "Why?" she wondered, peering over her shoulder before turning completely, brows lifting at the sight greeting her.

He whined and shut his eyes, not wanting to look at her as she came about, walking to the bed. But he couldn't stand not seeing her, not greedily taking in her every charm. He opened his eyes a crack and watched her get in the bed with him, sliding gently onto the clean linens. Her breasts swung slightly from her movements, her legs spread somewhat in nothing but a comfortable position. Normally he would have been endlessly thanking the moon for the level of comfort she had finally found with him and her body. Not right now though. She was so close he could touch her, touch her however he liked, wherever he liked. With whatever he liked. He could grab her and shove his face in her chest, grip her broad hips, nestle himself between her thighs; he always fit so snugly. Her scent drifted past him, that comforting smell of her: her sweat, her need, the inherent smell that was entirely Delphia. Loran had been right; the scent of their mating was maddeningly strong on her flesh. Whereas the smell of his semen was stern warning to other males, to him it just beckoned him on, to take what was already marked as his.

"You're torture," he muttered bleakly as his eyes opened fully, staring pointedly at her chest.

"And you're hard," she pointed out, looking back down at him. "Or nearly so," she amended, almost pityingly.

"Stop tempting me," he whined in return, tossing his head.

"I'm not doing anything!" she cried out.

"You did when you stripped. And you exist. That's enough for me."

She snorted. "I'm not offing myself to give you peace of mind. In fact, I may just have to torture you further now."

He wanted to sob at that revelation. He honestly couldn't take anymore. Shutting his eyes pointedly, he crossed his arms and tried to regulate his breathing. The throbbing of his growing arousal was making it difficult to concentrate, but damn it he was trying. He felt the bed shift, then warm, soft skin gently pressing along him, his penis tucked against wet flesh, tauntingly rubbed as Delphia's hips moved. A low, agonized groan escaped him and his eyes flew open to stare into her face. She smiled sweetly down at him then leaned forward to give him a gentle kiss.

"Do you want me on top?" she sighed, flicking his lips with her tongue.

He went rigid. Seizing her hips in sudden eagerness, he shifted her weight and thrust upwards as he pressed her down.

She giggled. "Was that a yes, Fenny?" she cooed, bouncing atop him.

He moaned. "Ohh, _yes_."


	38. Chapter XXXVII: Good Morning

A/N: asked to post so I got around to it, and yes, there's some more story yet. I do have the story plotted but with how life is... But at least here's another chapter! Probably one of the longest-running fics on FFnet by now XD Enjoy!

BL

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Chapter XXXVII: Good Morning

His dreams may as well have been a series of nasty photos picked up in a back-alley store somewhere. The images of some nymphet moon-creature did not stop. She was moaning and writhing astride him, using his body repeatedly for her own satisfaction, giving little worry or care for his pleasure. He didn't know it, but most of the night he had been groaning and panting out his dreams, only more aroused by the thought of this being exploiting him to satiate her own base hungers. She haunted his mind, took hold of him and wouldn't let go. When she'd spasm on him, he'd spasm, brought back down to a crushing low when she denied him his orgasm. Which only spurred his dream-mind on further, to drive harder, to pleasure her more.

Fenrir had muttered Delphia's name against her breast, still deep in sleep, shifting his face to better bury himself into her chest. They had fallen asleep as he had wanted, though not quite as he had imagined. Once Delphia had finished, shaking and mewling with him still seized within her, she had collapsed in near sobs, gasping for air. His final movements of the night were a hard, finishing thrust and dragging her unresisting body up over him to fall asleep against her chest. She had to be uncomfortable but he hadn't even considered the thought. He just wanted her cuddled to him as he snored into her breasts. And snore he did, though it was muffled by her flesh, which was probably for the best as she needed sleep as much as he did.

Delphia was accustomed to waking early and so roused from fitful slumber after sleeping in only a few hours. Her back ached a bit as she lifted herself up from her unorthodox position over Fenrir. Yawning, she looked to him and stifled the laughs welling up in her. After rubbing her eyes, she studied his face, his jaw slack with sleep, his snores stopping for the time being as he shifted his weight. His tongue was nearly lolling out of his mouth as his head turned on the pillow and she coughed a few times, poking his tongue back into his mouth repeatedly with a finger. She snorted with laughter and tried desperately to silence herself as Fenrir whined and slapped at her hands in his sleep. Ceasing her innocent torture of his poor, worn out body, she bent over and kissed his cheek before hopping out of bed. Going to put on her skirt, Delphia noticed fluid crusting on her leg. She stared at her body in disbelief, having to blink a few times to realise that what she saw was real. Here he was whining about being tired, and he couldn't even stop himself when sleeping? She grabbed her wand and cleaned herself up, knowing that she would never understand what went on in his mind. Nor did she wish to after seeing this; he was odd enough without delving into his psyche.

Her stomach rumbled loudly and suddenly she felt a piercing pain in her belly, sickness welling up. Whimpering she clutched at her stomach and willed the bile down. They had fallen asleep before eating. The pack had barely been gone when they had drifted off together. Neither of them had a single bite the day before, though she had to admit she mostly forgot she had ever been hungry. At least now she knew where the kitchen was, and that it was fully stocked. As much as it could be when all the food-stuffs were lifted. Giving Fenrir one last look, she left the room and went down to the kitchen.

Dreams fading, Fenrir found himself waking much earlier than his accustomed time. It wasn't even noon and his eyes were opening. He groaned, trying to shake off the last vestiges of his dream. He knew what he needed and finally he could roll over onto his mate after one of her nightly trips into his brain and get out the last of his pent up urges. Dragging himself over to cuddle up to Delphia's body, he was startled to see that the bed was empty. His mind taunted him until he wanted to scream. He couldn't think clearly, could barely think at all. Had it all been in his head then, and he was only hopeful that he would wake up to a proper mate gracing his bed? He sprawled out in what was supposed to be her side. Inhaling, he let out a shivering moan. No, he could smell her, could smell that the linens were clean, though imbued with their sweat. She _had_ been here; he sniffed again: recently.

The last thing Fenrir wanted to do was actually crawl from bed. Morning erection aside, it was too early and he just didn't know what to do with himself. With the prospect of getting out his morning need on Delphia, he didn't wish to use his hands. But he had never gone charging through the den with a raging hard-on before, either. Groaning pathetically he lifted himself up and twisted, sitting in the bed. His stomach growled, reminding him of how hungry he was. A hand dropped, resting on his taut belly. He felt almost sick from not eating and getting too much exercise the day before. Consoling himself with the fact that no one in his pack was awake and that no one would see the state he was in, he gingerly slid off the bed and made his way down to the kitchen, wincing with each step.

Upon nearing the kitchen, Fenrir could smell food, the remaining scents of cooking. It lulled him, overwhelming his senses so he couldn't even smell the softer, more delicate trail of scent his mate had left earlier. He stumbled to the kitchen door, leaning against the doorframe and took a deep breath. Damn it that smelled good. He didn't care that it was cooked and probably cooked badly. It was food. Looking across the room to the table, he saw Delphia sitting demurely in a chair, picking at a plate before her. This had to be her second helping, at least; he knew how she ate and it wasn't like this unless her mother was watching.

"Whelp," he growled in greeting, stepping into the kitchen and heading for the luscious scents of meat from the stove.

Delphia looked up at him and smiled before returning to her third breakfast. "Greyback," she rejoined before stuffing bacon in her mouth. "G'or'ing."

He blinked and looked at her over his shoulder. "What?"

She chewed for a moment, daubed her lips with a cloth she had obviously cleaned earlier, then swallowed. "Good morning."

Snorting he turned back to the pan that still had food in it. "What was this?" he wondered.

She rolled her eyes. "Bacon and steak; bleu."

"Both or just the steak?"

Placing her napkin down, she stared at his scarred back. "The steak. I didn't want the bacon too chewy. I don't think my empty stomach could have handled it."

Shrugging at that, he scooped up bacon in one hand and two small steaks in the other. Going over to the table he plopped down in the chair beside her and began eating. She watched for a moment, gave a lady-like sigh of impatient indulgence, and pushed her plate over. He stared down at the plate for a bit then looked to his hands. Wavering, he grunted and dropped his food onto it, going back to eating when she appeared satisfied.

"You're awful," Delphia muttered, resting her arms on the table, placing her chin atop her arms.

"You weren't saying that yesterday," he grumbled back, picking at his teeth with a sharp nail before settling into the second steak.

"No," she retorted, "but then I was too busy moaning to bother speaking."

Fenrir stopped eating long enough to grin down into the already half-empty plate. His eyes slit over to hers and waited for her to turn her head to look back up at him. When she did, he leaned over quickly and planted a lingering kiss on her mouth.

"Good morning," he rumbled as he went back to his food.

She smirked and wiped her mouth. "You taste like bacon."

"So do you." He popped the last of the steak into his mouth and lifted a brow as he felt gentle fingers brushing his chin. Delphia gave him a look when his eyes met hers, then held up her hand.

"You need to learn to eat," she informed him as she wiped the blood off onto her makeshift napkin.

He chewed some bacon in reply, staring hard at the side of her head. "I've been eating fine for sixty years, whelp," he rasped, "I think you're speaking of manners, which are completely different."

She huffed and returned to her slumped position, her head back on her arms. "Not in the house I grew up in."

"This isn't your house," he shot back, eating more bacon, not really minding that it was too crispy for him. She was right; any less done and even his stomach might have balked. "This is my den and the rules are different. And judging from the smears on your _napkin_, you weren't too concerned with manners in what I'm guessing was your first helping of breakfast."

Grumbling, not willing to admit he was right, she just turned her head and looked away. He smirked and studied her. She tried too hard to be good at the things she was bad at, and ignored the things she was good at. Curses? Who needed them? She was better with a dagger. And why bother with etiquette when she was much more adept at lying on her back?

"You need to stop worrying about being good," he told her after he got up and grabbed a second helping of meat, clearing the pan. He dared to try some fried tomatoes and potatoes. Surprisingly, they were actually decent. Taking a helping of each, he then sat back down at the table. Chuckling after a moment at his own words, he glanced side-long at her, seeing only the back of her head. "Then again, whelp, you're always good."

She smiled at that, turning her head back around to look up at him. "So are you, Fenny."

He cast his eyes upwards and exhaled heavily at the name. However, he decided to ignore it for the umpteenth time. "Well, I wasn't so good last night," he replied, prodding her.

Her eyes fluttered and a satisfied little smile curled her lips. "No," she murmured, reaching over to trail her hand over his arm, "you were good. Tired," she allowed, "dead tired, but wonderful as always."

Laughing and nearly choking on his potatoes, he wondered who in hell she was trying to fool. He hadn't even been able to lift his head. All he had managed to do was rest his hands on her thighs, thrust whenever instinct reminded him he should be doing something, thoroughly enjoy himself and moan like an idiot. The night hadn't been like anything he had experienced before. He'd had women on him, but he hadn't been so out of it any of those times. It was like being drugged or eating some severely regulated herbs. His mind hadn't stopped spinning and he would swear he could feel her in every inch of his body.

"Really, Fenrir," she said softly, squeezing his forearm, realising he was laughing at her. Truly laughing at himself, but laughing at her because she dared deny that he'd been lousy. Honestly, he _hadn't_ been. He'd been totally insane, grabbing at her and writhing beneath her as he moaned and frantically bucked for more friction, more pressure, more _everything_. His panting, his begging had driven her to the edge many times, the feel of him almost drunkenly clutching her, kissing her, sucking on her skin had sent as many shivers through her as his eager thrusts.

"I was dead," he returned with a wry, self-indulgent grin.

She shook her head, arching a brow. "Are you serious? You were a madman. I swore you were going to drive me up through the ceiling."

He stared at her, ate a strip of bacon, and chewed thoughtfully. Delphia reached up and wiped the grease off his lips.

"I don't remember," he finally admitted, grabbing her hand and licking her fingers clean. "I thought I just laid there."

"You did," she sighed, seeing his smirk settle on his face. So he thought he had caught her in a lie? Found her balming his ego? She could have to make him feel better, and like any girl probably would have. She didn't need to though; she wasn't lying. "You did lie there," she repeated on a murmur, "for about five seconds. Then you went nuts. And you didn't stop even when you were sleeping."

He worked his jaw in an attempt to speak, furrowing his brow as he tossed some chunks of potato in his mouth. They were so oily and salty and crispy; he actually _liked_ them.

"What do you mean, I didn't stop?" he wondered cautiously, curious as to what horrors he had wreaked on her body when he thought he had been snorting peacefully.

She snorted with laughter and gave him a burning, sultry glower. "You orgasmed in your sleep."

His face and voice were deadpan. "I did what."

Nodding, she sat upright and shifted closer to him, leaning alongside his body. Resting her head against his bicep, she gazed up at him. "You did. I suppose you couldn't take anymore, but wanted more. Or were having a really good dream," she allowed, eyeing him suspiciously. "Because I woke up with your . . ." she blushed then and broke off, almost relieving him. She had been speaking of their mating without going red or stumbling over her words once and it had begun to unnerve him. "Your . . . y'know, down my leg. And it wasn't from when you were awake, either. I would have noticed you missing my womb."

Nearly choking on his food for the second time that morning as laughter hit him without warning, Fenrir lifted his hands for mercy.

"I yield, whelp, I yield. Mercy," he begged, still laughing.

Delphia smirked. "Never," she hissed before lunging on him, insinuating herself in his arms.

"I cried mercy," he whined before her lips met his in a fierce kiss, the sudden realisation that she positively reeked of lust shocking him. Without recognising any intermediary steps, he felt himself locked in clenching, wet heat and groaned his pleasure. Practically leaping up, his chair fell behind him as he pressed Delphia to the table, becoming frantic on her.

"No mercy," she gasped, staring wide-eyed at him even as she clawed his flexing buttocks, urging him on.

He moaned happily and silenced her with another kiss.

How much time passed, Delphia didn't know. Logically she knew it had only been a few minutes, but with her body thrumming with pleasure and Fenrir draped boneless and panting over her, it seemed endless. He shifted and pressed his mouth to her neck, groaning into her sweaty skin before dragging himself off her. Struggling for a moment, he found her still upright chair and collapsed in it.

"Tired?" she teased, perched on the edge of the table, swinging her legs almost innocently.

His eyes lifted to hers and he gave her a look. "When did you become so brazen?"

She pouted, visibly upset, startlingly confused with herself. Thinking for a moment and nibbling her lower lip, her eyes drifted slowly around the kitchen. "I'll stop," she whispered uneasily.

Horror washed over his features. "No. Don't stop. I was just wondering."

Shrugging and fiddling with the hem of her skirt, she just shrugged again, gazing down at her lap. "I didn't mean to, Fenny. I'll stop, really. I just wanted you."

He whined and shook his head, damning himself for ruining that. She hadn't even realised what she was doing and his bringing attention to it had to have wrecked her comfort level. Now he'd have to prod her every time he wanted something, instead of just getting it.

"I liked it."

A smile flitted on her mouth and her gaze lifted to his. "Really? You don't think I'm . . ."

"Bad?" he filled in, aloofly leaning back in the chair as he studied her, "Dirty? A hussy?"

"Fenrir," she intoned warningly, giving him a good, long stare. "I'm not a whore."

He grinned. "But you're so _good_ at it."

Staring at him in aghast shock, a flush coloured her cheeks. She had no idea what to say to that. Deny it? But she so enjoyed him. Wasn't she supposed to? Her blush deepened and her head hung in shame. Perhaps she was supposed to like it, but if she admitted it, did _that_ make her a whore?

"Phia," Fenrir drawled worriedly, almost sadly, "don't look so bloody ashamed. You aren't a whore; I was teasing." How many times did he have to remind himself that she was too damned sensitive? Killing someone with him had her giggling and beaming happily. Teasing her about relishing their mating had her ashamed and frightened. He hated the way she smelled; at its simplest, it was the reek of confusion. She smelled like a timid, terrified fluffy little mammal caught in a corner somewhere by a big, bad wolf.

"Am I not supposed to like it?" she wondered, wringing her hands.

Scowling, he tossed his head. "Damn it, whelp. Of course you're supposed to like it. Why question yourself now? You're _not_ a whore; you're my mate. My dirty, wanton, wriggling little mate."

She went deep red but smiled at him, her eyes shining. "You think I'm _wanton_?"

He chuckled. "You nearly killed me yesterday; I'd have to answer with a resounding _yes_."

Her features became something of a proud mask at that. Now she was beaming like she had just cut some poor sod down. "I didn't kill you, Fenny. Just . . ."

"Made me so exhausted I could have died?" he taunted, standing up and getting between her legs, running his hands gently over her thighs.

"You wouldn't have died," she replied with a roll of her eyes, liking the way he was touching her. "You're really too dramatic sometimes."

His brows arched. A pure-blood calling someone else dramatic? He hadn't heard such hypocrisy before, and he knew the Dark Lord's little secret. Leaning forward, he kissed her.

"If it's not worth dying for, it's not worth doing," he murmured against her lips before kissing her again.

She kissed him back and gave him a look as their mouths parted. "You're incorrigible."

His eyes raked her face as he smiled slowly. "I know, little one. And yet your hips are still rolling, your belly's clenching and you stink with the need to mate."

She opened her mouth to argue then seemed to check herself, looking somewhat surprised. He was right; she really was writhing for him.

"Oh be quiet," she muttered, glancing away.

"Give me a minute and I'll fuck you again," he informed her gallantly, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"Oh go bugger yourself, Fenrir," she grumbled darkly, eyes darting up to look in his face.

"Rather bugger you," he said brightly, his rough voice sounding rather chipper and cheerful. "You're more entertaining."

"So I'm entertainment."

Something about this was giving him the slightest twinge of déjà vu. "No," he said carefully, weighing his words for once, "I said you're entertain_ing_. There's a difference, see," he continued. "Entertainment is a noun, unless I completely buggered up at school, and you aren't that –"

"Damn it, Fenrir," she broke in, frowning, trying not to let him see her laughing silently. The corners of her mouth began twitching and still she struggled, even if she wasn't fooling him by any stretch of the imagination.

He sighed, his shoulders sagging and he chucked her chin. "Delphia, shake these stupid ideals of good and bad, right and wrong. You aren't at home, your mother _isn't _watching. Just do what you want. If you want to mate me, demand my attentions. If you don't, then leave me alone. I'm too old, too mean and too daft to bother with female games."

He was poignantly honest in his own way. She smiled faintly up at him then wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a big hug. He was always so firm and warm, absolutely bristling with power.

"You aren't daft," she breathed from his chest, getting a gentle rubbing along her spine in return.

"I am when it comes to pure-bloods," he grunted.

Her smile broadened. "Well, I don't think you're daft."

He snorted. "Then _you're_ daft as well. Don't worry, we can be daft together."

She shook her head in disbelief. "You're an impossible, _impossible_ man."

Grinning, he pressed a soft kiss in the crook of her neck. "I know, Phia." He paused and Delphia could feel the struggle in him, the uneasy set of his body as he shifted, pulling his head away from her. His muscles flexed against and around her, causing her to murmur even as she wondered what was on his mind.

"What is it, Fenny?" she asked when he settled and huffed, but didn't speak.

He let out another resigned huff and looked down at her, brushing her messy hair from the side of her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Do you want to do something tonight?" he wondered, sounding completely ill-at-ease and out of his element.

Her brows lifted. "Something? Tonight? Like a date?"

He blinked. "A date?" She didn't actually expect – she had to be teasing him. "Delphia, we're _sleeping_ together; I think it's rather late for _dating_."

Turning her face up to his, she quirked a brow. "Why? We can go on dates."

Staring at her in astonishment, he didn't even know where to begin. "Phia, whelp," he began, trying to be consoling (what if she did have her heart set on such a stupid custom?), "what do you expect me to do? Take you to dinner? I haven't done that since I was a teenager and what of the Aurors who come around to claim my pelt as a trophy? It's _not_ happening."

She giggled even as she sighed. "I've never been on a date before."

He almost felt sort of bad, guilty almost, on that one. Why hadn't she dated, though? She was pretty enough, more than pretty for any stupid, hormone-driven boy at Hogwarts to take note of her. Or perhaps she had been too voluptuous, too intimidating for them. He could only guess at the level of her development a couple years ago, but he could imagine it was something akin to what he had cuddled in his arms at the moment. In his years of rearing younglings, he had seen the dramatic discrepancy in male-female maturity. Girls were suddenly women in the course of a couple years, filling out completely while their male counterparts were still gawky and childish. Delphia's mother wouldn't have said no to dating some foolish bugger, but she definitely would have had hawk-eyes to make sure her precious little girl wasn't soiled and ruined. Couldn't bring the family a bad name; more importantly, she couldn't ruin her mother's machinations for her.

So perhaps it was because she had developed well, and developed fast, bringing her into a whole other league from those whose eyes stared. She had been Slytherin, he knew, and that was also enough for most people to think twice. He would have. A third time too; house robes wouldn't have been enough to dissuade him from getting under them, if this is what he got in return. He thought further to her environment at Hogwarts. Wasn't her idiot brother, Kieran, at school when she was? Merlin, no boys would have had a chance of getting near her without being hexed into oblivion, and by the time he would have left school, there would have already been stigma and fear about her.

Better for him, anyway. Pity though that she'd never get to be a normal girl. But from the way she snuggled into his chest and sighed breathily, just enjoying the feel of him, he wondered if she ever wanted that at all. Who knew? Perhaps she was the one who never heard the propositions, never saw any of the sideways glances. He chuckled. Maybe her mind was too wrapped up in the thoughts of werewolves to bother worrying about normal boys her age. She certainly hadn't had fear of him until he forced it on her, and even then, she had been aroused by his forcefulness. He felt his blood rush warmly at that memory. She had been trembling, apprehensive as she stared at him, but stare she did, like some enraptured teenager unable to tear her eyes from him. Dropping a kiss on her cheek, he smiled. She _was_ an enraptured teenager unable to tear her eyes from him, and choice body parts as well.

He let out a little wolfen purr of contentment, rubbing her back as he cradled her, basking in the feel of her body against his. If she had had anyone at school, it would have been a fellow student. And even a seventh year wouldn't have been able to handle her. Not only would she have been too demanding and wearying (oh, how he knew that one too well) but she would have driven them up the wall and probably insane. She drove _him_ up the wall and he'd been dealing with teenagers since he was one.

"Fenny?"

He sighed and lifted her chin up to look at her. "I'll sleep with you, I'll make love to you, I'll protect you, but I can't ever date you or give you a normal life."

She smiled at him. "I know. I'd still like a date."

Groaning, he let his head fall back as he shook out his tangled hair. There was that enraging bit that continually had him going. It was always a choice for him; smack her to smarten her up, or kiss her because he loved how she kept him on his toes. And he knew he'd never hit her. Bite her, claw her flesh, pound her until she was a yowling, rubbery mass of flesh, but never wilfully hurt her.

"What," he rasped, his head falling back down so he could eye her warily, "you want me to woo you? _Court_ you? I'm a ruddy werewolf, Phia."

Laughing and shaking her head, she lifted a hand to place her fingers on his lips, silencing him. "You should bring me diamonds and jewellery and expensive gifts. But you won't and will beg out, saying that you can't." Leaning up, she kissed him warmly. "We could go hunting. Find a victim and play with him together." She wrapped her arm around him once more, settling into his chest again.

His brows soared. _That_ was what she wanted from him? That was her idea of a date? The moon had certainly chosen right for him. He still wasn't too fond of labelling it a _date_, but if that's what she wanted, well, it wouldn't really be different from any other time. Realisation crept through his mind until it clutched his brain and he felt more foolish than he ever had in his life. He kissed the top of her head. He had been dating her, had been courting her, _had_ been wooing her. Never once had he, would he, call any of their lessons dates, but in a way, that exactly what they had been. Grinning into her hair, wanting to laugh at himself, he kissed her again. It wouldn't stop either; she'd keep getting her lessons and hence, the dates without a name.

"I gave you a dagger," he mentioned uneasily, wondering if that counted. It counted to him, however, and it had to add up to something.

She nodded at that. "Yeah. And I always try to keep it on me."

He snorted. "It's not on you now."

Shrugging, she lifted her head, forcing him to pull away slightly so they could look at each other. "Do I need it right now?"

Shaking his head, he rested his forehead against hers. "No, whelp."

"So," she said after a silent time, "are we doing anything tonight?"

He nodded and grinned. Hunting wasn't what he had planned, but he doubted she'd balk against what they were going to do. "But I have to go out first," he amended quickly, his mind working furiously over their conversation. Diamonds? Where in Merlin's name would he get bloody diamonds? Pressing his lips to the side of her face, he retreated a couple steps a moment later, his hands sliding off her. "Go to our room and read, or something. Don't bother with the pack without me; if Aneya pesters you, allow her to but keep your answers short and succinct."

She stared at him. "Fenny?"

Nodding again, he caressed her cheek with a crooked finger. "It's my duty to protect you, whelp. And yes, I'm worried. But I'm leaving and the best I can do is give you advice to follow. I know you won't let me down," he added slyly, bending to kiss her quickly.

"I won't," she murmured, her eyes drooping in contentment as the pressure on her mouth lessened. He flicked her lips with tongue then dragged himself away from her. She sat there, on the edge of the table, watching him leave the kitchen. He seemed deep in thought, which he was, though she could have no inkling of what he was considering. She already knew she had no idea what went on in his mind and if someone had told her what he was scheming up right then, she would have started laughing.

He turned at the empty doorway, gazing at her for a moment. "I'll be back for you, whelp." He smiled faintly. "I . . ." he stumbled on his words at the last minute, quickly finding something to say, "shouldn't be gone too long."

Delphia just smiled back and tipped her head to the side curiously, but not bothering to ask. She didn't know if she _wanted_ to know what he was doing. When he disappeared, she hopped off the table and set about tidying things up. What she would do for a house-elf. The only reason why she even did anything was because she didn't desire living in squalor. After all, how hard was it to clean, really? She knew how, had read books, even learned the charms in school. Often she had to put the elves to work, which meant doing things herself half the time, with a home as large as hers. Dropping the dishes into the sink she had magically scrubbed while cooking, she filled it with sudsy water and grabbed her pans from the equally magically cleaned range. As she set about scrubbing and drying the dishes, leaving them on piles on the counter for when she cleaned out the cupboards, a strange thought and feeling hit her.

She liked this.


End file.
